


Love Me for Myself Alone

by sylviarachel



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And John is very patient, Bisexual John, Boys Kissing, But also very sad, Cuddling & Snuggling, Demisexual Martin, Demisexuality, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Episode: s03e04 Ottery St. Mary, Episode: s03e06 St Petersburg, Episode: s04e04 Wokingham, M/M, MJN Air Is A Family, Martin is nervous, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, POV Martin Crieff, Pining!John, Post-Reichenbach, Seriously these people just never shut up, Sexuality Issues, So much talking, Texting, at least a bit, the M rating may be an overreaction on the author's part
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-02-28 17:35:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 35,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2741135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylviarachel/pseuds/sylviarachel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John can't bear to stay in London without Sherlock, takes a job in A&E at Fitton Hospital, and meets a really very attractive ginger airdot captain under somewhat unfortunate circumstances.</p>
<p>Or, in which Martin despairs of ever meeting anyone who will love him for who he is, until his usual bad luck fortuitously introduces him to an ex-military doctor with sad eyes and a lovely smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So one day my daughter and I were walking somewhere, and (as often happens, because we live not so very far from two international airports and several smaller airfields) I stopped in my tracks to watch a Bombardier CSeries test plane pass overheard.
> 
> “Mo-om,” she said, and rolled her eyes (as also often happens). “Do you have to stop and watch _every single plane_? OMG, you’re just like Martin!”
> 
> And over the next few days I thought about that, and wondered, hmm, What if Martin and I were alike in certain other ways, too?
> 
> And from that thought – as well as from the brilliant work of annie_reckson, billiethepoet, syllogismos, flawedamythyst, and theimprobable1, from which my own personal Martin/John ship set sail to begin with – was this fic born.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An accident; competence; an invitation.

Martin fists one hand in his sweat-damp hair and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, blocking out the visible evidence of his most recent disaster.

When he opens them again, of course, it’s all still there. The bonnet of his car, rucked up like an accordion. The engine – what’s left of it – steaming gently and leaking a colourful variety of viscous fluids onto the pavement. The scarred light-pole. The tyre-marks where he swerved hard to avoid the guy on the bicycle, who had just turned sharply out of the path of the green Fiat running the stop sign at about seventy miles an hour.

“Jesus,” someone says at Martin’s shoulder. Martin jumps.

“Sorry.”

He turns. It’s Bicycle Guy, his helmet ( _Thank God_ , thinks Martin) swinging by its chin-strap from one hand, the other scrubbing through his short, greying hair.

“I mean,” he says, “I’m sorry for startling you, but also, Jesus, your car…”

“It’s okay,” Martin says automatically, even though it really, really isn’t.

“Got a whole fleet of them back at home, have you?” says Bicycle Guy.

Martin looks at him blankly.

Bicycle Guy sighs. “Sorry,” he says again. “Not the time, yeah?” He steps a bit closer to Martin and narrows his eyes. “Are you all right? Did you hit your head at all?”

Martin considers, tries to think back. He does vaguely remember hitting his forehead on the steering wheel … or does he?

There’s a hand on his shoulder suddenly, and he flinches.

“I think you should sit down,” says Bicycle Guy. He has a mobile in his hand; did he before? Martin can’t remember. “Is there someone I can phone for you?”

Martin blinks.

“I’m John, by the way.” The hand on Martin’s shoulder is reinforced by one on his opposite elbow (where did the mobile go?), and Bicycle Guy – John – is steering him gently to sit on the kerb, away from the steaming bonnet of the Corsa.

Martin goes, too numb and hazy to resist, and finds himself sitting with his elbows on his knees, his head hanging, staring at his shoes.

He thinks, numbly, that they’ll never be the same again.

A pair of denim-clad knees appears between Martin’s feet, and a hand nudges his chin up; suddenly he’s looking straight into a pair of deep blue eyes framed by complicated creases.

“Can you tell me your name?” John says. His hands are in Martin’s hair now, feeling over his skull. Martin fights the urge to press into the touch, as though it were affectionate rather than clinical. Mum used to cuddle him and stroke his hair, when he was small and upset about something, but nobody does that now.

“Martin,” he says. And then, on auto-pilot, “Martin Crieff. Captain Martin Crieff.”

“Are you.” John’s eyes crinkle in a smiley sort of way, though his mouth doesn’t smile. “Can you follow my finger, Captain? Don’t move your head.”

He holds up his left index finger, shifts it right, left, up, down. Martin follows it with his eyes, at the same time registering vaguely that the fingers of John’s other hand are at his throat, checking his pulse.

And Martin’s pulse is racing.

Understandable, of course, as he’s just wrapped his car round a light-pole.

“All right?” says John.

“Mmm.” Martin’s not sure what to say, and long before he’s worked it out, he hears sirens, far-off and faint.

“I phoned 999,” John tells him. “Obviously we need the police.”

“I didn’t get the plate number,” says Martin, in sudden distress. “I—”

“Not to worry,” John says. “I did. And I don’t _think_ you need the A &E, but I’d rather not take chances.”

_How does he know?_

With an effort, Martin pulls together enough mental energy to squint warily at John.

“Oh,” says John, with a rueful grimace. “I’m an idiot.” He sticks out his hand. “Doctor John Watson. I work in A&E at Fitton Hospital. At the moment.”

There’s an odd note in his voice, at the end there, that Martin can’t quite identify.

“Oh,” he says. He shakes John’s hand. “Martin.” Then he remembers he’s already said that. _Stupid, stupid._

“Yes,” says John, frowning a little. “You said. Can you tell me what day it is, Martin?”

“Wednesday,” says Martin, firmly. “November twelfth. We’re on Gilroy Road in Fitton, and it’s—” He goes to look at his watch, and discovers that the face is smashed. The hands sit forlornly at ten minutes after six.

It’s this, finally, that breaks him.

“I was meant to be at a client’s house with my van by six-fifteen,” he says, and the last word comes out on a sob.

* * *

 

“Hi, Martin,” says someone. “How are you feeling?”

Martin opens his eyes, then shuts them again immediately, wincing, because the light is much too bright. After a moment, he tries again, shading his eyes with one hand and squinting a little.

He manages not to say _Where am I_ , which would be both a ridiculous cliché and redundant, as this is quite obviously Fitton Hospital – and if not the same examination bay where his sprained ankle was taped up that time, then another one completely identical to it.

“Hello there!” The voice – it’s a woman’s voice – is also too bright, almost _chirpy_ , like a female version of Arthur. Martin orients himself and gets his first look at her: youngish, prettyish, wearing red-framed glasses and a fuzzy pink jumper under her white coat. “I’m Doctor Morys. John here tells me you’ve been in a crash?”

“John?” Martin looks about him and, thanks to the flash of movement in his peripheral vision, spots John just getting up out of a chair in the corner.

He comes up to the side of the bed and smiles reassuringly at Martin. “Hi,” he says. “I’m going to guess you did hit your head after all. What can you remember?”

“I remember …”

Martin remembers looking at his watch and realizing that he couldn’t possibly get home, change clothes, pick up the van, and get to the client’s house by six-fifteen. He vaguely remembers John appropriating his phone and ringing the client to explain ( _No, he’s okay, but I’m afraid he’s absolutely not fit to drive ... Is it possible to reschedule? … Excellent, ta very much, I’ll have him ring you_ ). He remembers the police arriving, and an ambulance. And after that … nothing.

He repeats all of this to John and Dr Morys, who exchange what appears to be a Significant Medical Look. Dr Morys repeats the follow-my-finger test, and peers into his eyes with a light.

“Headache?” she asks. Martin nods. “Nausea?” He shakes his head, then wishes he hadn’t.

“Dizziness?” says John. “Because you did actually pass out for a couple of minutes back there.”

“Yes,” says Martin. “A bit. I have a slight abnormality of the inner ear, you see, I-I-I black out when I get dizzy—”

“Okay,” says Dr Morys. “Any double vision?”

“No,” says Martin firmly. At least not that.

“And…” she glances at what must be his patient notes, then at John: “Alert and oriented at the scene, you said.”

John nods. “Until he wasn’t. Alert, I mean; he hasn’t seemed confused or disoriented at all.” He turns to Martin and smiles suddenly, a little grin with something deeply pained behind it. “I bet you even know who the Prime Minister is.”

“Of course I do,” says Martin, frowning, and names him. John’s smile goes inexplicably a little sadder.

“The police came and took charge of your car,” says John. “I told them what I saw of the crash, and gave them the number plate of the Fiat. And also your phone number – I hope you don’t mind, but I had your phone and I reckoned you’d be better off talking to them later on than … just then.”

“Yes,” says Martin. “Yes, fine. I … fine.”

He’s not sure he wants to admit that he can’t remember any of this.

Dr Morys gives him some paracetamol and a sheet listing warnings for people with concussion. “Is there someone at home who can keep an eye out?” she asks. “Wake you up every couple of hours?”

“Yes,” says Martin. “One of the—one of my housemates can.” Emily’s in her third year of the veterinary science course and is possibly a bit over-fond of looking after people.

* * *

Dr Morys signs him out, eventually, and he’s free to go – which is good, except that what he actually feels is more like … _adrift._

“You’re sure you’re going to be okay on your own?” John asks him – John who is still inexplicably here. With Martin. Maybe, Martin thinks, he’s got a shift later – he did say he worked here, Martin’s sure of that – and it’s just not worth the bother of going home.

He means to say _Yes, of course, I’ll be fine_ , but for some reason what comes out instead is, “What happened to your bicycle?”

And John laughs.

“D’you know,” he says, “I was concentrating so hard on the really fit airline pilot I’d just met, I actually didn’t notice.”

Martin frowns in confusion. He’s being teased, obviously, he can tell that much – he’s not _stupid_ – but there’s something about the _way_ he’s being teased – something warm underneath it, almost _kind_ , as if John actually … actually _likes_ him.

Oh, no.

Is this … is John _flirting_ with him?

If he were, Martin would have no idea, he’s fairly sure of that. People don’t flirt with Martin; it’s just not a thing that happens to him. Or, at least, not that he knows of. Of course, it’s quite possible that it _has_ happened, without him recognising it (there seems to be a language to this sort of thing that everyone but Martin speaks fluently, even Arthur, who’s so hopeless at nearly everything else), but it seems unlikely, because, well, why would anyone bother?

“Oh,” he says uncertainly. “I’m … sorry.”

John’s hand on his shoulder is warm through his tee-shirt and just heavy enough to be reassuring. _You must be a very good doctor_ , Martin thinks.

“I am quite good,” says John, with a smile in his voice, and Martin’s face flushes hot with humiliation and he drops his head into his hands, wishing he could just vanish, because _Oh no oh no oh no I bloody well said that out loud._

The thing is … the thing is, if John _were_ flirting with him, Martin thinks he might have quite liked that. Liked it actually quite a lot.

Only now he’s ruined it, of course, because he is (as people have so often told him) a berk.

Then the hand on his shoulder tightens just perceptibly; the thumb rubs gently across his shoulder-blade, once, twice. Martin stills, wildly hopeful.

“Listen, Martin,” John says, his voice oddly hesitant now. “I was wondering. Er. Do you think … d’you think you might like to, er. To get a drink, sometime?” He pauses, clears his throat. “Er, with me?”

Martin’s face, entirely without his permission, creases into a grin. He can’t stop it, and doesn’t even try very hard. He raises his head. “Yes,” he says, twisting round a bit to meet John’s slightly anxious gaze. “Yes, I’d like that.”

John grins back at him, then, and it’s the loveliest thing Martin’s seen in a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve named Gilroy Road after George Kemp Gilroy (1914–1995), an RAF pilot from Edinburgh who recorded 25 “kills” (enemy aircraft downed) during the Second World War and had the nickname “Sheep” (because he’d been a shepherd prior to joining the RAAF before the war).
> 
> Agricultural colleges in the UK don’t actually offer veterinary degrees, as far as I’m aware – you need a university with a School of Veterinary Medicine (or Veterinary Science) for that – but I wanted one of Martin’s students to have something vaguely resembling medical expertise. IRL Emily might be enrolled in a course to become a veterinary technician (which is a bit like a nurse for people).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some phone calls; _The Princess Bride_ ; introspection; a text.

John insists on phoning for a taxi to take Martin home, and then insists on paying for it. Martin by this time is too tired to argue, and really, it would be stupid to spend the money himself when he’s got so little of it, and now no car either.

“I’ll text you,” says John, and Martin, slumped in the back of the taxi and trying not to just fall over, smiles.

The problem with taking a taxi, though, is that because it doesn’t require him to pay attention to traffic signals, his own driving, or anyone else’s, his mind is free to endlessly replay all the worst, most catastrophic, most humiliating events of the day.

The only bright spot in the past twenty-four hours, in fact, is John Watson asking him out for a drink; and by the time the taxi ejects him in Parkside Terrace, Martin’s more than half convinced that even that is just a disaster waiting to happen. John won’t ever text him. Or, if he does, it’ll be to say he’s changed his mind. Or, if he hasn’t changed his mind already, he will do before they’ve even got to the end of their first drink.

And if not then, sooner or later. Probably sooner.

Because, well, _Martin_. It’s inevitable, really.

He climbs the front steps slowly and stiffly. Everything hurts. As he’s shouldering open the front door, Emily the vet student comes out of the kitchen and nearly drops her bowl of microwave popcorn in her haste to exclaim over his bedragglement.

“I’m fine,” Martin says gruffly – it’s sweet of her to care, but he’s not sure he can actually cope with her baseline level of fussing just at the moment – “really, it looks worse than it is.”

“What _happened_?” Emily puts the popcorn down on the rickety hall table and steers Martin into the sitting-room, pushing at him gently but inexorably until he folds himself onto the horrible sofa.

“I, er.” Martin scrubs one hand through his hair. It feels filthy. “I … crashed my car a bit.”

“Crashed it _a bit_?!” Emily shrieks. Her eyes go big. “Martin, oh my God! Are you sure you’re okay? You look—”

To his horror, Martin feels his eyes and nose stinging _._ He can’t cry in front of Emily, he _can’t_. He’s an adult, for God’s sake, he’s nearly twice her age.

“I really am okay,” he says, looking at his toes. “Well … concussed, but only a little.” He digs the leaflet out of his pocket and hands it to her. “And some scrapes and bruises. The car, though … not so good.”

“Oh, Martin. I’m so sorry.”

Martin shrugs. “Could be worse,” he says.

* * *

Emily hugs him, which he pretends he doesn’t find desperately comforting, and brings him blankets and a cup of tea, and when he’s drunk the tea she makes him lie down on the sofa with a cushion under his head, and hunts through the accumulated DVDs (which are mostly Dave’s and Jamie’s) until she finds Janelle’s copy of _The Princess Bride._

While the opening credits are playing she fetches her laptop from her room and curls up cross-legged in the less horrible of the two armchairs (neither of which matches the horrible sofa, which is just as well).

“It’s not too loud, is it?” she asks anxiously, a few minutes later.

 _As you wish_ , says Westley, on the screen.

“Mmm,” says Martin.

He falls asleep in fits and starts, and dreams of crashing his car into the Cliffs of Insanity to avoid a screaming eel.

* * *

Martin sleeps, in more or less two-hour chunks, until late the following afternoon, leaving the sofa only to stumble to the downstairs loo and, at some point in the early morning, to drink another cup of tea. When he wakes for good just after four o’clock, he feels as though he’s been attacked by a fourteen-year-old karate enthusiast, but also much clearer in the head than at any point since the moment he spotted that green Fiat.

He takes a shower – longer and hotter than he normally allows himself – and grimaces at his reflection in the bathroom mirror: he hasn’t got two black eyes, quite, but he certainly doesn’t look well.

Then he puts on old jeans and an ancient tee-shirt, makes himself a bowl of pasta, and sits at the kitchen table to eat it while making a to-do list for dealing with the fallout from yesterday.

There’s a voicemail message on his phone from a PC Habib, asking him to ring her back. When he does, he discovers she remembers him from Gilroy Road (though Martin, to his embarrassment, doesn’t remember her), and she tells him that on the basis of John’s evidence and the tyre marks on the pavement, the driver of the green Fiat has been located and arrested, and is likely to be charged with dangerous driving and leaving the scene of an accident.

“Good,” says Martin.

PC Habib asks him to come round to the station and sign a statement; he makes an appointment for the following day, before MJN’s 3pm flight to Minsk.

He rings the insurance company, but doesn’t take in much of what the bored call-centre rep tells him.

Then he rings Carolyn – just in case his embarrassing Tuesday evening has been on the local news or something – and is surprised and secretly gratified when the first words out of her mouth, after he’s told her what happened, are not _Martin, you berk!_ but “Good Lord, Martin! Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he assures her. “Nothing but a few scrapes and bruises. I don’t look very good, I’m afraid, but I’ll be perfectly fit to fly tomorrow.”

 _And it doesn’t matter what I look like_ , he adds to himself, _as it’s a cargo flight_.

“All right,” says Carolyn. “If you’re sure.”

“Completely sure. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

He rings off, takes a couple of deep, calming breaths, and rings his mum.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Martin is still trying to persuade his mother that he doesn’t need to be in hospital, nor does she need to come up to Fitton to look after him. If it were Mum herself, he knows, she’d be insisting she was perfectly well and trying to serve tea and biscuits to the paramedics even if she were in the midst of having a heart attack; but somehow the idea that Martin is a functioning adult and can in fact recover from minor abrasions and bruising without close medical supervision (he doesn’t mention the mild concussion, because he knows she won’t hear the adjective at all) seems entirely outside her world view.

“I’m _fine_ , Mum, honestly,” Martin says, fighting to keep his growing exasperation out of his voice. “I’ll ring you tomorrow, all right?”

By the time he finally thumbs the _end call_ button and puts down the phone, he feels ready for another kip on the sofa.

He also feels very much alone.

This sort of situation, he reflects, is exactly when one needs a significant other.

And it’s not that he doesn’t love Mum and Simon and Caitlin, and it’s not that he doesn’t know they love him. It’s just that, well, he’s the youngest and the shortest and the least attractive and certainly the least visibly successful of the three of them, and it’s sometimes difficult to appreciate the love underneath Mum’s worrying and Caitlin’s sniping and Simon’s overbearing big-brotherly bonhomie, and Martin would really like, just once, for someone to love him the way he actually is. Would like the hugs and kisses without the condescension, the affection without the anxious fussing over his poor life choices, the caring without the underlying impulse to improve him.

To _fix_ him.

Martin’s family don’t even know where he lives – that is, they know his address, he’s not _hiding_ from them ( _Well, you are a bit, Skip_ , says Arthur’s voice in his head; Martin shushes it irritably), but they aren’t familiar enough with the geography of Fitton to recognise 12 Parkside Terrace, Flat E, as the attic of a slightly grotty student house. (Flat E, however, is not grotty in the least: Martin may have to live in an attic, but that doesn’t mean he has to live in a tip, and he’s not going to, thank you very much. His attic is as nice as he can make it, actually, though admittedly it’s lucky he’s not any taller.) They don’t know it and he’s never going to tell them, because Mum would fret about his welfare, and Simon and Caitlin would give him advice he doesn’t want and almost certainly can’t use, and the whole thing would make him feel like a child.

And anyway, what Martin really wants …

What Martin really wants is all the nice things people in relationships have: emotional support and affection and snuggling on the sofa, and cooking dinner together and sharing a bed and doing the shopping and going to the cinema, maybe, and for walks in the park. He wants someone to come home to. Someone he loves, who loves him.

The thing is, though. The thing is, people who love each other, like that, also like to have sex. People who aren’t Martin. Some of them like it a _lot_. Whereas Martin, generally speaking, doesn’t. Which means that with every girlfriend or boyfriend he’s ever had – not to mention all the attempts at relationships that didn’t even get that far – things have always, no matter how promising they might initially have seemed (and that’s if they got past all the dozens of _other_ things about Martin that make him, as he’s been informed on more than one occasion, Really Not Good Relationship Material), run aground on that one thing. Most people aren’t keen on the unpredictable absences, or the lack of a proper salary, or the menial labour, or the horrible student house, or the general … _Martin-ness_ of Martin, as Douglas would undoubtedly say; but even for those who can get past all that, a boyfriend who doesn’t like sex seems to be a deal-breaker.

Which isn’t to say he hasn’t tried.

He’s had more luck with women than with men, because women sometimes think (for a while, at least) that he’s being a gentleman. But sooner or later everyone twigs. Martin’s wondered more than once whether he’d have had an easier time if _he_ were a woman (which he’s not; he’s thought about it, but that isn’t what this is), because the thing about the male anatomy is that it makes his lack of interest really, really clear.

(Amongst his early attempts at relationships were a couple of blokes who really didn’t care about Martin’s lack of interest in getting off, provided they got off themselves; but it turned out that they also didn’t care about several other things, such as condoms, foreplay, proper preparation, post-coital cuddling, having a conversation, or ever ringing Martin back. Martin may be a bit hopeless but he’s not an idiot; that’s not an option he needs to try out ever again.)

And presumably there are other people like Martin in the world – he knows there are; there are websites – but if any of them live anywhere near Fitton, he’s certainly never managed to run into them. And if he did, there are still all the _other_ things about Martin standing in the way.

Whereas John …

John met Martin in just about the worst circumstances possible, and seems to like him anyway. John went with him to A&E, even though he really didn’t have to, and stayed with him for nearly two hours, which he _really_ didn’t have to, and then expressed an interest in spending _even more_ time with him. John is clever and kind and very, very competent in a crisis (and if there’s one thing Martin finds devastatingly attractive in a potential significant other, it’s competence). He’s seen Martin’s car ( _what’s left of it_ , Martin thinks, wincing) and Martin’s Oxfam-shop off-duty clothing, he heard Martin give his address to the taxi driver, and he lives in Fitton so he’ll have known what it meant, and _after_ all that he gave Martin that beautiful, heart-melting smile. So this seems like it could actually go somewhere, and Martin _wants_ it to – wants to try it out, anyway – and he’s going to give it his best shot, even though part of him (quite a large part, if he’s honest) knows it’s doomed to fail.

All of which is why, when John actually _does_ text him shortly after six o’clock, and not to cry off but to ask if they can meet up the following evening, Martin is astonished and delighted and also filled with trepidation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: PC Habib is borrowed from the short-lived but hilarious Rowan Atkinson sitcom _The Thin Blue Line._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> glamorous, but gloopy; telling tales; a revelation in the flight deck.

In the event, of course, they can’t actually meet up the next day, because Martin has to fly to Minsk, and then John’s got two overnight shifts in a row while Martin has a series of van jobs booked. Martin’s not sure how he feels about this: on the one hand, the anticipation is quite nice, not to mention the texting; on the other hand, the longer it goes on, the more likely it becomes that John will come to his senses and change his mind. In the meantime, though, he decides, he’s going to enjoy himself.

* * *

“You’re looking very chipper, Captain,” Douglas says, when Martin opens the door to the portakabin the next afternoon. “For a man who’s recently had such a dramatic brush with death.”

“It wasn’t a brush with death,” says Martin. “Arthur, is there any coffee?”

“Sure thing, Skip!”

Martin sits down at his tiny desk and reaches for a flight-plan form.

Arthur hands him the coffee with a blithe Arthur-ish smile, just as usual; but then he tilts his head thoughtfully and says, “You know, Skip, you do look a bit pleased with yourself.”

“ _Pleased_ with myself?” Martin looks up from his flight plan in utter bafflement. “I’ve just wrapped my one and only car round a lightpole, Arthur, and I’ve got no prospect of replacing it. The last thing I am is _pleased_ with myself, believe me.”

But then his phone buzzes, and it’s a text from John ( _Happy flying! :-) Look after yourself in Minsk, I’ve heard it can be a bit sketchy_ ), and Martin can’t help the silly smile that spreads over his face.

“Well, all right,” he says, “maybe a little. After all, it could have been worse.”

* * *

By the time they are actually both free on the same evening it’s eight days and probably thousands of text messages later, and Martin has decided that he likes John Watson even more – probably dangerously more – than he thought he did.

He dresses carefully, in his least disreputable jeans and his one really nice jumper (a Christmas gift from Caitlin), and spends twenty minutes trying to do something about his hair before deciding it’s a lost cause. After that he’s still got twenty more minutes to kill, and he finds himself scrolling through yesterday’s conversation with John:

_You'll never believe the bloke who came in here this morning_

You'd be surprised what I can believe

Unbelievable is sort of SOP at MJN

As you may have gathered

_He presented with pain in his right ear_

_and it eventually turned out he'd got a desiccated pea in his ear canal_

O.O

_had been there for god knows how long, accreting cerumen and microscopic dirt and so on, until finally it did, in fact, get infected_

Cerumen?

_Ear wax to you ;-)_

You'd think he'd have noticed sooner that he had a foreign object in his ear…

_yes you would think that, but i should mention he had the hairiest and dirtiest ears i've ever seen_

_sort of the mirkwood of ear hair_

For the second time today, Martin chuckles at the joke.

So what did u do??

_We started with forceps_

_But I was afraid we'd only push the sodding thing farther in_

_So in the end we had him lie on his other side and poured warm water in the affected ear, and after a couple of hours it had softened enough that I could fish it out_

Glamourous, but gloopy

_???_

Sorry, just something my FO said once

He did part of a medical course before becoming a pilot, and he said that was the reason he didn’t actually want to practise medicine

"Glamourous, but gloopy"

_Ha! Yep, can be very gloopy_

_so my pt was extremely pissed off with me_

Why??

_bc his wife was lecturing him at the top of her lungs_

_turns out she's been shouting at him for years but he never knew because he'd gone mostly deaf in that ear_

Funny, I met a guy once who'd spent decades pretending he was deaf to avoid talking to his wife…

_Really?!_

Scout's honour

He had the last laugh though

Cos he got a lift back from Helsinki and she was stranded there with her horrible grandson and a mainly chocolate thing on her head

I mean the chocolate thing was on her head, not her horrible grandson

_You are completely ridiculous_

I'm sorry :-(

_no no don't be! i meant ridiculous in a good way :)_

Is there a good way to be ridiculous??

_Yes_

_You :)_

* * *

They meet at a pub Martin’s never been to, and John gets in the first round (Guinness for himself, and a glass of house white for Martin), almost as though they were just two mates meeting up for a pint – almost, but not quite, because when John hands Martin his glass, their fingers touch briefly, and John smiles at him, warm and slow and soft. Nothing like that ever happens with Martin Davenport.

Martin’s face flushes hot. “H-h-how was your day?” he manages, and then curses himself for saying something so banal and stupidly domestic.

John relaxes into his seat with a long sigh. “Awful,” he says. “But better now.”

He smiles at Martin in a way that says _because you’re here_ , and Martin almost can’t believe his good luck.

* * *

John doesn’t talk much, but he’s a patient and attentive listener.

“Now, the phrase ‘and a mainly chocolate thing on her head’ cries out for explanation,” he says, and before Martin quite realizes what he’s doing, he’s told the whole story of Arthur Milliner, stockbroker, and the flight to Helsinki – even the really humiliating bits, which he had no intention of ever telling anyone.

John laughs so hard that he has to push his pint glass away so as not to spill it.

Martin watches him warily, certain that once he recovers he’ll make some excuse to leave – who could possibly want to continue a date with a man who’s just confessed to first smacking, and then being soundly thrashed by, a fourteen-year-old boy? – but what John actually says, when he’s got his breath back, is, “Well, I’m glad to hear there are people whose sibling relationships are even worse than mine.”

And then he wants to know if working at MJN is always that exciting.

“No,” says Martin, but then he finds himself talking about the time they flew to Devon with a piano (even, sheepishly, the bit about spraining his ankle whilst trying to show Jamie how not to lift a heavy box; “I don’t remember you being at the hospital that time,” he says, and John’s face goes briefly still and shuttered as he says, “I was in London then,” and Martin wonders what that means but is quickly diverted by John’s asking to hear the rest of the story). Again John laughs in all the right places, that unexpectedly and delightfully high-pitched giggle, and listens patiently when Martin’s tongue gets tangled up in itself.

A drink turns into two drinks and then into dinner, and before Martin knows it the barman is calling last orders and they’re heading out of the pub side by side, Martin feeling not at all drunk, but pleasantly and unusually relaxed.

“Thank you,” he says, and puts out his hand for John to shake (because he’s not sure what else to do), and John takes it and pulls him into a quick, warm hug. Martin, surprised and delighted, hugs back, and when they let go he still feels warm, despite the late-November chill.

“Where are you flying next?” John asks him.

“Er … nowhere very exciting, I’m afraid,” Martin says. “A couple of early runs to Doncaster and back, and then I think we’re taking a stag party to Paris.” He makes a face. “I hate stag dos. The plane always smells of sick for days afterwards.”

“In other words,” John says, “your job can also be both glamourous and gloopy.”

Martin is startled into laughing out loud, and the warm feeling lasts all through the night and into the next day.

* * *

Their next date goes much the same way, and the next, and the incessant texting continues – sometimes late into the night – and the existence of John becomes impossible to conceal from the rest of MJN.

“This relentless cheeriness is beginning to alarm me, Martin,” Douglas says, halfway to Geneva. Martin has just lost a bet worth half the cheese tray, and can’t summon the least bit of angst or even annoyance about it, because last night John ended his goodnight text with an X.

“Sorry,” he says, not even trying to sound as though he means it. “Wasn’t really in the mood for cheese today anyway.”

Douglas being Douglas, however, Martin is eventually forced to admit he’s seeing someone.

“Oho! Well done, Captain!” Douglas says. “What’s she like, then, this mysterious someone?”

To his horror, Martin feels his face going hot. He is not embarrassed by John, he _isn’t_. And he’s not ashamed of being … whatever he is. The question’s just never arisen before, that’s all.

“His name’s John, and he’s a doctor,” he says, with as much dignity as he can manage. “He’s … really great, actually. Nice. And clever, and funny.” He can’t resist adding, “You know – the standard specs.”

Douglas, to his credit, does a very good impression of complete unsurprise, and before Martin has quite thought it through – and because he’s actually extremely proud of John – he’s getting out his phone and showing Douglas and Arthur the photo he took of John and himself on their second date, in which John is grinning over his pint glass and looking, in Martin’s considered opinion, as handsome as it’s possible for anyone to look.

“Gosh, Skip,” Arthur says, peering at the phone over Martin’s shoulder. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look that happy.”

Douglas doesn’t say anything at all, but there’s an odd look on his face, as though he’s trying to remember something.

Martin decides to ignore him, and be grateful that Douglas apparently doesn’t see anything amusing about John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: John’s patient with the desiccated pea in his ear is adapted from the first chapter of _Captain Corelli’s Mandolin_ by Louis de Bernières. If you haven’t read it, you should! (Code Red on the film version, though: run away now, run away fast. It’s AWFUL.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duxford Air Museum; coffee; Anchorage; dog-walking.

Their fourth date (it _is_ a date, isn’t it?) is a visit to IWM Duxford, which John seems to enjoy nearly as much as Martin does – or else he’s a much better actor than Martin has hitherto had any cause to suspect.

Only once in the course of the afternoon does Martin wonder if he’s miscalculated. They’re in the Air & Sea hall, contemplating a Westland Sea King HAS Mk 6 helicopter; John goes quiet – quieter – and Martin’s excited commentary falters in the face of that increasingly dense silence.

“John?” he says, touching John’s elbow hesitantly.

John blinks, and turns to look at Martin as though surprised to find he’s there.

“Just thinking,” he says. Then, to Martin’s astonishment, he reaches up and gives the Sea King’s nose a little pat, muttering something that sounds almost like _good old girl._

Sea Kings are used in Afghanistan, Martin remembers now – wasn’t there a news story just recently about a Mk 4 going back into service after having a hole blown through it by the Taliban?

John catches Martin watching him sidelong, and hunches his shoulders slightly.

“C’mon,” he says, turning away from the Sea King and pointing at a one-man fighter-bomber in FAA livery. “Tell me about that one over there.”

“Oh,” says Martin – almost absently, because for the first time he’s more interested in the person he’s come to the Air Museum with than in the aircraft he’s brought them here to see – “the Sea Hawk? Well, the Fleet Air Arm added it in 1953…”

* * *

It’s late when they get back to Fitton, and the temperature’s below zero, and when Martin stops the van outside John’s block of flats, John turns in the passenger seat, smiling, and asks if he’d like to come upstairs for coffee.

Martin freezes. His heart hammers in his throat. He shrinks away from John, gripping the van’s steering-wheel till his knuckles go white, and has to remind himself to breathe.

“Look, I need to tell you,” he says, astonishing himself with the steadiness – well, relative steadiness – of his voice. “I don’t—”

John’s face, which crumpled up in wary puzzlement at Martin’s retreat, smoothes out into its _Don’t worry, I’m a doctor_ expression. “Just coffee,” he says. “Actual, literal coffee, not metaphorical coffee. I’m not--”

_Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god._ “I thought this was a date, I thought we were _dating_!” Martin says, before he can stop himself. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Martin.” John’s voice is firm; his eyes close briefly, and for just a second his left hand clenches in his lap. “It was a date. It _is_ a date, of course it is. We’re dating, that is definitely what we’re doing here.” He exhales slowly, and when he speaks again, it’s slower, almost hesitant. “Can I … can I tell you something?”

Martin nods mutely.

“Come for a walk with me?” John sets his left hand on the door-handle and tilts his head, beckoning. Martin unbuckles his seatbelt, gets himself out of the van, and goes round the bonnet and up onto the pavement beside him.

They set off John’s street, their breath puffing white in the chilly air. John’s the same height as him, more or less, and Martin has a moment to think how nicely their strides match before John, his broad shoulders hunching a little, starts talking.

“The thing is,” he says. There’s a pause; then, “I had this friend. In London. A good … a very good friend. And he … died.”

“I’m so sorry,” says Martin, shaken. “How—”

“Suicide,” says John bleakly. “I saw … I had to …” He pauses, then starts again: “The thing is, Martin, I really like you – I like you a lot – and I’d like to see you again – keep seeing you – if you want that too, I mean—”

“I do,” says Martin, “of course I do.”

He notices for the first time that John has a slight limp – very slight, just a tiny hitch in his step – and wonders where that came from.

“But you should know,” John says, as if Martin hasn’t spoken, “I’m not … You might change your mind, is what I’m saying.”

“I won’t,” says Martin. _Although you might_.

“I thought I could maybe do something casual, no strings,” says John. “After …” Pause. “Anyway, I thought I could, but I don’t think I can. Or not with you, anyway, because … I think … I think if I’m going to do this, it’s got to be … we’ve got to be straight with each other. So to speak,” he adds wryly.

Martin huffs a small half-laugh; John bumps his shoulder, and Martin leans into the contact. He would like, he realizes, to put his arms round John and hug him; to feel John’s arms around him. To stand in the dark, cold street, under the sodium lamps, and just _be_ _here_ , holding each other close, for as long as it takes to smooth away the lines of wariness and grief that mark John’s face, the tension from his neck and shoulders.

He doesn’t dare.

“The thing is, Martin …” Pause. “I’m … not good at this. Talking about … this sort of thing, I find it difficult. But the thing is, you should know, I’m all kinds of fucked up.”

Martin’s head whips round to gape at John, who’s staring determinedly ahead.

“I don’t know if I can be … what you need,” he says. “What you deserve. I mean … I want to be. I do. But I don’t know if I can. So—”

And Martin does what he always does: he panics. “I-I-I don’t like sex,” he blurts out, stopping in his tracks.

John stops walking, too, and turns to look back at him. Because he’s standing right under a streetlamp, Martin can see the tiny puzzled pleats between his eyebrows.

“If we’re doing confessions,” Martin says, explaining. “That’s mine.”

John nods slowly. “Okay.”

“Sex with other people, I mean,” says Martin. He hunches his shoulders and stares fixedly at his shoes. “At least … I have wanted to try it once or twice, at least I thought I did – I – there was this good friend of mine at school – but she didn’t fancy blokes, or at least she didn’t fancy me, I mean, most people don’t, why would they—”

“I do,” says John, which is enormously flattering but also makes everything worse.

“Oh,” says Martin, miserably. “I’m sorry.”

At least John hasn’t asked about the other person; Martin’s fairly sure that if he had to admit to his boyfriend ( _is_ John his boyfriend? It’s a lovely thought…) that he once thought semi-seriously about making a pass at his first officer – even though it’s ancient history now – he would spontaneously combust with sheer embarrassment.

They’re standing close enough to touch, but neither of them does. Martin longs for John to hug him, or hold his hand, or put an arm round him; at the same time he hopes John won’t, because…

“So … you’re ace?” John asks. “Asexual?”

Martin looks up in surprise, because John doesn’t sound upset or put off, just curious. And he knows about asexuality, apparently. _Of course he does, you clot. He’s a_ doctor _._

“I … don’t know,” Martin admits. “I think, maybe. As I say, I have thought about it with, with one or two people, but normally I don’t. And … I never did have sex with those people, so I don’t know if I’d have liked it, and I …” He looks down at his shoes again. “I didn’t much like it when I tried it with other people, so. I don’t know.”

John is quiet for a long moment, and Martin doesn’t quite dare to look at his face; instead he looks at John’s left hand, which is clenching and unclenching at his side.

Finally John says, “But you’re not … what’s the word … aromantic? You are interested in – well – in romantic relationships? And, oh, God, when I hugged you, before, was that—”

“It was fine,” Martin says hastily, looking up again to make sure it’s completely clear. “It was lovely. I, er, I like hugs. And I absolutely am. Interested, I mean. In relationships. Yes. I mean – _relationship._ One relationship. With you.” He clamps his lips shut before the babbling can get any worse.

John tilts his head to one side, lifts one hand to rub at the back of his neck. “Okay,” he says at last. “Good. Fine. Thank you for trusting me with that. I … that’s good.”

Martin blinks at him.

“I think we’re going to need to have that coffee at some point, though,” John continues, “because this might be a long conversation.”

He nods once, briskly. Then, with a shy half-smile that sits oddly with his broad shoulders and still almost military bearing, he holds out one hand to Martin. “This okay?” he asks.

Martin’s heart leaps with possibilities. “Yes,” he says, “yes, please,” and they walk back to the van hand in hand.

* * *

Really sorry :( client's meetings have run into a 3rd day

So we're stuck in Anchorage until further notice :(

_He's paying you extra I hope??_

_Not to worry! The fling will still be playing when you get back :)_

_film i mean_

_sodding phone_

I'm sorry, I know you wanted to see it on opening night :(

_I did want to_

_But i'd much rather see it WITH YOU_

_so no more apologising :-)_

_Also, i wanted to ask: i've been thinking a lot about you_

Me too

About you, I mean

_specifically, kissing you_

_are you ok with that?_

Actually I've been thinking about the same thing

And the answer is yes, I am very OK with that :-)

_:) :) :) :)_

This conversation makes me feel a bit like a teenager

Only I never did anything like this when I *was* a teenager

_Starting with the fact that unless you're a lot younger than i thought, texting hadn't been invented yet ;)_

Yes, OK, that's also true

_So i've never been to Alaska--what's it like?_

Dark

Seriously, very very dark

Because it’s the end of December :-P

_are there polar bears?_

Apparently, and also grizzly bears … not in the city though, I don't think

Arthur is *very excited* about the mere *possibility* of polar bears

Or any bears really

But we've yet to see any, which is *just fine* with me

_I must say i'm unplugged by this arthur person_

_impaled_

_INTRIGUED_

_BLOODY PHONE_

_he sounds a very … interesting bloke_

Honestly, Arthur sort of defies description

He's completely hopeless but at the same time really great

In that absolutely nothing gets him down, or not for long

Also he’s HERE RIGHT NOW and wants to drag me off to breakfast

_Go eat breakfast11_

_!!_

_Doctor's orders_

_xxx_

* * *

Arthur is at least three times as eager to meet John as John is to meet Arthur, which is how, ultimately, the three of them end up walking all over Brinkley Chase with Carolyn’s dog one afternoon while Carolyn herself is in London, seeing _Turandot_ with Herc.

It’s a bright, clear, freezing cold day in early January, and Martin’s coat isn’t quite adequate for the weather, which he ends up not minding at all because John immediately spots that he’s chilly and moves closer, snugging one arm round Martin’s waist. It doesn’t actually make Martin any warmer on the outside, but he does somehow feel warmer inside.

Arthur has hardly stopped talking since they got into his car an hour ago – or only to leave space for John to answer his dozens and dozens of questions, and often not even that. John started to look a bit dazed after the first fifteen minutes – right around the time Arthur started explaining, in completely unnecessary detail, the rules of Yellow Car – but has made an impressive recovery, and is now actually _carrying on a conversation_ with Arthur, and with every appearance of enjoyment.

Martin’s not at all sure what to think about that.

The whole thing feels a lot more like bringing John home to meet the family than Martin expected, and he’s not entirely sure what to think about that, either.

Arthur drops them at Martin’s on his way home, and Martin and John stand on the pavement for a moment looking after the muddy-brown Ford Fiesta (with Snoopadoop’s fluffy little face centred in the rear window) before John says bemusedly, “Well.”

“Yes,” says Martin.

“He really is—”

“Yes.”

There’s another longish silence as they make their way up the front walk and into the house, which is mercifully quiet today, and hang up their coats in the chaotic entry. At last John, standing at the sink filling the kettle for all the world as if he lived here, turns to look at Martin and says, “I like him.”

Martin grins. “That’s good,” he says, “because he obviously thinks you’re great.”

“You said Arthur thinks everyone’s _brilliant_ ,” John points out. “I’m not sure whether to be flattered or hurt.”

As John’s plugging in the kettle, Martin’s phone pings with an incoming text; it’s from Arthur ( _please, God, let him not be texting while driving!_ ) and reads,

**Skip your boyfriend is brilliant!!!!**

Martin, still grinning, turns the phone to John. “There,” he says. “You see?”

John leans back against the edge of the worktop, crossing his arms, and smiles at Martin in way that makes his stomach swoop pleasantly. “Now,” he says, “I seem to remember a discussion about kissing…”

Martin gulps. “Yes, please,” he says.

And John’s arms unfold and beckon him in, and before long they completely forget that they were chilly and were going to make a cup of tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in chapter 2, I said Martin was the youngest sibling, but [it has just been revealed](http://johnfinnemore.blogspot.ca/) that Martin is actually the middle child. Oops.
> 
> [Imperial War Museum Duxford](http://www.iwm.org.uk/visits/iwm-duxford), which includes the American Air Museum as well as AirSpace, Air & Sea, and Battle of Britain exhibit, is of course a real place (the former RAF Duxford), which I for one very much hope to visit one day; and they do in fact have a Westland Sea King HAS Mk 6 helicopter, built in 1972 at Yeovil, which saw service in, inter alia, Bosnia and the Persian Gulf, and a Hawker Sea Hawk FB5. The Sea King–related news story Martin recalls is [this one](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2084998/Royal-Navy-Sea-King-ZA298-war-downed-Taliban.html) from January 2012. Which probably puts paid to my already feeble attempts to fit this story into the timelines of either Sherlock or Cabin Pressure canon, but oh well.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> coffee; confessions; new and interesting levels of kissing.

“And you really are okay with this,” Martin says. It’s not the first time he’s said it: he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Yes,” says John, also not for the first time.

“With a relationship with quite possibly no sex in, quite possibly ever.”

“Yes.”

“But … _why_?” It comes out as a sort of wail, and Martin flushes, hating the helpless, pleading sound.

“Martin.” John’s compact, competent hands are curving round Martin’s, and his voice is patient, affectionate … _amused_?

Martin looks up.

“Because I … I like you. Look, I’ve had a lot of sex,” John says, and Martin’s face flushes even hotter but John doesn’t seem to care. “With quite a lot of people. I’m not … I mean, God, it’s not that I’m not interested. Like I said, if you ever wanted to, I’d be— but, look, if I just wanted casual sex, I’m perfectly capable of going out and pulling someone.”

“Modest, too,” Martin grumbles, but there’s a tiny warm glow kindling behind his ribs: John _could_ have done that, certainly he could, and instead he’s here: sitting knee to knee on his sofa with Martin, two mostly-empty coffee mugs abandoned on the floor by their feet -- holding Martin’s hands -- stroking his thumbs along Martin’s knuckles.

John’s mouth quirks. “Martin, I’m a mess, you know that,” he says. “I’m not saying this is forever. I just … for right now, I just want this. Us. Whatever that means for you, whether or not it involves sex. Okay?”

“Okay,” Martin agrees readily. He can relax, now, because there went the other shoe: _I’m not saying this is forever – it’s just for right now._ So he won’t say that he’s falling deeper and deeper, he won’t say how much John means to him, he won’t say any of that, but for right now he’ll take whatever affection and companionship John’s prepared to give him, greedily, and save them up for when, inevitably, he’s on his own again.

* * *

“He was a bit like you, my friend,” says John. “In a way.”

They’re leaning against the worktops in the kitchen of John’s small but quite nice flat, which is plenty big enough for the two of them if they don’t mind standing quite close together. And Martin, for one, doesn’t mind at all.

This is what they mostly do, now, on nights when neither of them has to be anywhere else: Martin comes round to John’s (where there are no inquisitive, noisy, and/or hungry Ag students), and they cook (or occasionally order takeaway) and then have a quiet night in, watching a film on John’s laptop or playing cards (never for money, but occasionally for Jaffa cakes or custard creams) or just sitting close together on the sofa, talking or being quiet. Sometimes they kiss. Sometimes John will sit at one end of the sofa while Martin lies down with his head in John’s lap, and sooner or later John’s blunt, strong fingers will thread themselves through Martin’s stupid tangly curls, unsnarling and smoothing and massaging, and Martin loves it, and loves John for knowing that he loves it, and relaxes so thoroughly that he almost feels like a whole new person.

On this occasion John cooked spaghetti Bolognese, and Martin brought a bottle of what Douglas promised him was a very good red wine, and they’ve just finished the washing-up, bumping hips and elbows and shoulders companionably as they move around each other in John’s tiny, military-neat kitchen, and then John made coffee. Outside the kitchen window, snow is falling lazily. It’s quiet and cosy and domestic and basically everything Martin has ever wanted from a relationship, until very recently.

Recently … he’s started to want more.

Martin sips his coffee – it’s really good coffee – and ventures an encouraging _Mmmm?_

“In that he was passionate about his work,” John continues, gazing sort of vaguely over Martin’s left shoulder. “He was a—a detective. Sort of a private one. And he did a lot of work for free, just because he loved it – just for the fun of solving puzzles and showing us all how clever he was. And he _was_ clever. He was a genius.”

There’s an odd insistence in John’s tone, at the end there, that Martin can’t entirely account for.

“And also in that he didn’t do sex. At least, I don’t think he did. Although he also didn’t do relationships. Hell, he barely did friendship. I mean … he _had_ friends, but … I was the only one he really acknowledged. He … I don’t think he really understood that it was possible for people to _like_ him.”

Martin doesn’t know what to say to that, because … well, because what _can_ you say? Even Martin, who is verifiably one of the most pathetic people on the planet, has more than one friend. Although he supposes that if you did have only one friend, John Watson would be an excellent choice for that position.

“I don’t even know why I’m telling you all this,” John says, with a defeated sigh. “Inflicting this on you. Except … you’re so easy to talk to.”

Martin’s so busy wondering what – since it sounds like he’s pulling the words out of a deep well on a chain covered in spikes – John must be like with people he _doesn’t_ find easy to talk to, and reflecting that he, Martin, really ought not to be casting stones, that he nearly misses what John says next:

“And … and I like you too much to lie to you.”

Martin’s face goes hot, and he knows he’s blushed to the roots of his hair. Again.

“M-m-me too,” he stammers. “I-I-I like you, too, I mean. A lot. I mean—”

John smiles at him, soft and sad, and shuts him up with a warm, gentle-but-firm hand on his arm and a kiss just above his ear. He puts his coffee down on the worktop.

“Everyone thought we were … together,” John says. “Him and me. But we never were.”

And something in his tone makes Martin say, “But … you’d have liked to be?”

John hunches his shoulders, looks up at the ceiling briefly, but finally says, very quietly, “Yes. I think— Yes.”

“Oh,” says Martin. He’s tempted to say he understands, because God knows he’s experienced his share of hopeless unrequited … things, but of course he doesn’t, not really: he can’t begin to imagine what it must have been like to love someone like that, and then see them die. _God_. _Poor John._

So instead he says, again, “I’m sorry.”

John looks at him, now, with raw grief in every line of his face.

“I’m sorry, too,” he says. His gaze skates down to Martin’s chin. “Sorry to put all this on you, and sorry I never told him, and sorry he died not knowing. And I can’t…”

He looks away again. It’s a pattern, Martin realizes at last: the more important a thing is to John, the less he’s able to look at you while he says it. Still, he _is_ saying it, and to Martin of all people, and it feels like an enormous privilege – like being granted the one key into a secret treasure-chamber.

Filled with unexploded bombs.

“I can’t help thinking,” John says to the kitchen ceiling, quietly, “if I _had_ told him—if he’d known—”

“It’s not your fault,” Martin interrupts urgently, daring to grab at John’s hand. It’s cold, and stiff with tension. “I promise you, John, it’s not your fault.”

John takes a deep breath, lets it out, draws another.

“I promised myself,” he says, and his hand turns under Martin’s, returning the grip and warming Martin’s heart out of all proportion to the size of the gesture. “I swore that if … that I’d say things to people, important things, from now on. Not leave them unsaid. Just … just in case. Even though it’s. Difficult. Even though I’m shit at it.”

Martin swallows hard.

“So,” John says. He visibly forces himself to meet Martin’s gaze; his expression is so honest, so _naked_ , that Martin both desperately wants to look away, and desperately wants to kiss it all better. As though that were a thing he could possibly do.

“So. Martin. I know we haven’t known each other very long. But I think … I think …” John pauses, choosing his words. “You matter to me. Very much. And … I still don’t know whether I can be what you need. What you deserve. But I’d like … I want to try to be.”

He said something very much like this once before, but Martin doesn’t miss the shift in emphasis.

“Me too,” he says again, a little breathless with the weight of it. “All of that. Me, too.”

He hopes John can hear all the things he can’t quite manage to say aloud: _I love you. I love you so much that I don’t know what to do with it all. It’s completely daft, I’ve barely known you two months, but it’s true._

And then, of course, Martin’s innate hopelessness does its best to ruin what ought to have been a lovely moment by causing him to say, “Can I— may I kiss you?”

But John – incredibly – isn’t put off by Martin’s ridiculous awkwardness; he lifts his free hand to cup Martin’s cheek, and says softly, “Oh, God, yes.”

* * *

This isn’t the first time Martin has kissed John (or John’s kissed him), of course, and it isn’t the first time he’s really, really enjoyed it. But just lately the kisses have sometimes felt like _not quite enough_ ; and this kiss feels different again—more urgent, more breathless, and … _warmer_.

It’s not until John pulls back a little (gently, keeping his hand in Martin’s hair, the way he knows Martin likes) and breathes Martin’s name in a low, wondering tone, that Martin realizes why.

Unusually – because normally when they kiss like this, John carefully keeps his lower body angled away from Martin’s – they’re pressed together from shoulder to knee; and there, where their hips touch, are not one but two unmistakeable erections.

“Oh,” says Martin, feeling both idiotic and really very anxious to get back to the kissing. “Is, er … is this … do you … mind?”

“ _Mind?_ ” There’s laughter in John’s voice, and disbelief, and something like wonder. “No, love, I absolutely, definitely do _not_ mind.” And then, more cautiously, “… do you?”

Martin – reeling both from the astonishing, dizzying, unmistakeable feeling of _wanting_ a very specific other person who is _right here_ ,and from John’s voice saying _love_ in such a natural, unthinking way – struggles for words, and utterly fails to find any.

Instead he shakes his head, and then leans in – _dives_ in – for another, deeper kiss.

John evidently interprets this answer exactly the way Martin intended it, because he doesn’t try to ask any more questions, just throws himself into matching Martin’s enthusiasm (though with considerably more skill). Before Martin knows it, he’s got his back against John’s fridge and one of John’s knees between his, and is rutting frantically against John’s strong denim-covered thigh.

Every part of him (and especially _that_ part) is entirely focused on getting as close to John as the laws of physics allow – closer, if possible.

John pulls away again, wide-eyed and panting.

“Martin, love,” he says, “if you need to stop—”

 _Stop?_ Why on earth would Martin want to _stop?_

Unless—

“Oh, God,” Martin groans, and turns away from John, feeling suddenly hollowed-out and achy. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Jesus, Martin.” John’s hand grips his shoulder – firm but gentle, as John so often is – and turns him round: Martin could resist (he’s scrawny, but thanks to the demands of Icarus Removals he’s not nearly so much a weakling as he looks) but doesn’t.

“Don’t apologize,” John says firmly. “You _really_ don’t need to apologize. Absolutely not.”

Martin frowns at him, baffled. “Then why—”

“I just meant—I get the impression this is a bit new for you, yeah?” John sounds embarrassed, which is ridiculous because if anyone in this kitchen should be embarrassed, surely it’s Martin. “I don’t want to rush you into anything you might regret later.”

“I have done … things … before, you know,” says Martin, bristling: this is beginning to feel a bit like one of Douglas’s Mighty Sky God routines, for which he is very much not in the mood.

“Yes, you said,” says John. “But you also said—I’m sorry, but—you also said you hadn’t ever enjoyed it.”

And Martin has got no argument to make there, because he did say that and it was absolutely true, but—

“I’m enjoying it now,” he growls, and tugs at John’s hips to bring him closer. “At least, I _was_.”

John doesn’t resist his tugging; their bodies press together again, and they both gasp.

“God, Martin,” John breathes. His hands slide down Martin’s back to rest at his hips; Martin feels the heat of them through his jeans, or at least imagines he does. “Look at you. You are so … _God_.”

He slides his hands down into the pockets of Martin’s jeans, and pulls their hips even closer together.

“I didn’t know,” Martin says, breathless, against John’s ear. John smells like Boots’ house-brand shampoo and Ivory soap and hospital and, most of all, himself, and Martin could get drunk on that scent, he’s fairly certain. “I never realized what all the fuss was about.”

John laughs into Martin’s neck, a joyful little sound, and then Martin’s laughing too – and there’s another thing he didn’t know before, that sex could involve _laughing_. It’s so much better this way.

Then John’s clever fingers are unbuttoning Martin’s jeans, and he’s sinking to his knees and looking up at Martin with wide dark eyes. “Can I?” he says. “Let me? Please?”

And Martin’s pulse is thundering in his ears, in his throat, so loudly that he can’t speak, can’t even think in words – so he nods, frantic to be understood, and John does understand (of course he does) and tugs down Martin’s jeans and pants, and people have tried this before and accomplished nothing but dampness and disappointment, but this is John, and _John’s_ mouth on Martin is absolutely the most unbelievably amazing thing that has ever happened to him.

“It’s like flying,” he gasps, his fingers in John’s soft, short hair; and, only a little later, “Oh my God, _John._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand there you have it, dear reader: that was me attempting to write smut. Smut is … not really my area.
> 
> Much of what Martin experiences in this story, love- and sex-wise, is based on my own life experiences (though I’m a cis woman, so the anatomy’s different). It is not necessarily representative of the experiences, feelings, or opinions of other demisexual people who are not me. Also, if as you read you notice similarities between the Demi!Martin of this fic and the Ace!Sherlock of [That’s How the Light Gets In](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1111980/chapters/2238934), it’s because they both have quite a lot of me in them…


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> microphone intermittent, metaphorically; a revelation in the bedroom; Douglas fails to mind his own business.

It’s less like switching from _off_ to _on_ , Martin discovers over the next several weeks, and more like an intermittent microphone: while it’s true that he’s much more interested in sex than he’s ever been before, it’s also true that he’s not interested nearly so often as John seems to be. Still, though, his view of sexual activities – which he’s always seen as a chore to be got through, like mopping the kitchen floor or changing the oil in the van (or, sometimes, as an ordeal to be suffered through, like a visit to the dentist or an SEP refresher course) – has undergone a revolution: even when (and there’s no predicting it) there’s clearly no question of getting off himself, helping John get off makes Martin _happy_ in a way it never has with anyone else before.

The problem is, John won’t ever initiate anything more intense than a kiss or a cuddle.

“I don’t want to push you,” he says, when Martin – taking his courage in both hands – asks him why. “I want it to be your choice.”

Martin raises his eyebrows. “You don’t think I’m capable of saying no?”

“Honestly?” says John, and Martin can tell what he’s going to say before he says it: “I really don’t know if you are, love.”

It strikes Martin then how different this is from every other relationship he’s ever been in – not that he’s been in very many – because, actually, saying no to sex he doesn’t want is a thing he’s always been terrible at. _Close your eyes and think of flying_ , that’s always been more his thing. But—

“But I am,” he says; and once again his mouth gets ahead of his brain far enough to add, “because it would be _safe_ to say no to you.”

“Oh, my God, Martin.” John reaches for him with both hands, pulls him close. Cradles Martin’s head against his bad shoulder, and speaks softly into his ear: “If you want any of your exes punched in the face, love, just say the word.”

Martin laughs – maybe a bit hysterically – John’s joking, of course, _obviously_ he must be joking. “No,” he says. “No, no, it’s fine, I was just, I mean, you don’t have t—”

“Martin.” John pulls away, holding Martin gently by the shoulders, and looks at him, his face folding up in concern. “I’m not going to hunt anyone down, okay? I … don’t really do that kind of thing anymore. I just meant … well, it should always be safe to say no.”

“I know it _should_ ,” says Martin. “But it isn’t. You can’t tell me that’s news to you.”

John grimaces and sighs and pulls him close again, and this time Martin reciprocates the hug. “I can say no,” he says. “I can, I promise. Trust me.”

And after a long, breathing silence, John says quietly, “Okay.”

* * *

Two days later, as the credits are rolling on _Casino Royale_ , John tightens his right arm around Martin’s shoulders, rests his left hand tentatively on Martin’s left knee, and says, “D’you want to, are you in the mood for, er—”

And Martin (who, in addition to being very sleepy and having a van job in the morning, really doesn’t and isn’t) swallows hard, covers John’s left hand with his, and says, “N-n-no. Sorry, I, I’m just really—”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Martin looks up, and is startled to find that John is not only not angry (he wouldn’t be) and not annoyed or even disappointed, but actually looks _pleased_.

“Okay,” he repeats. “And thank you.”

Martin gapes at him. “You’re _thanking_ me for, for turning you down?”

“No,” John says, smiling at him fondly. “I’m thanking you for being honest with me, and for trusting me. I know that’s not easy.”

Martin is not sure he’s ever felt so many things at once so strongly. It’s possibly this confusion of relief and surprise and affection and gratitude and _what if that green Fiat hadn’t made that illegal turn?_ that makes him say, “C-c-could I stay here tonight and just … cuddle?”

“Absolutely.” John’s fond smile expands into a delighted grin.

From behind his own reflexive grin, Martin studies John’s face, and can find nothing at all in it but ringing sincerity. The words _I love you so much_ pile up behind his lips, clamouring to be spoken; he manages to stifle them by wrapping both arms around John and breathing against his shoulder.

“C’mon, sleepyhead,” John says, and kisses his ear.

* * *

And it’s all perfectly lovely until one evening – after a round-trip to Tenerife featuring bad weather, an air-rage incident that left Arthur in tears, and a series of worrying false alarms from G-ERTI – Martin commits the grave tactical error of pouring himself a fourth glass of wine.

By the time that fourth glass is half drunk, he’s at a stage of inebriation which he very rarely reaches – past the euphoria and the giggles, woozy and woolly-headed, prone to acrimonious self-analysis and outbursts of unsolicited over-sharing.

“I’m going to miss this,” he confesses.

John frowns at him. “What?”

“You know,” says Martin, waving a hand vaguely round John’s lounge. “This. You. When you’ve had enough of me and moved on.”

“Martin—”

“I mean, I don’t even know what you see in me, what would anyone, I’m a man-with-a-van who pretends to be a pilot, and not even a _good_ pilot, I mean—”

“ _Martin_.” John catches one of his flailing hands. “What’s this about, then?”

“You. Me,” says Martin miserably. “This. It’s just for now, I know that, I just. It’s fine. But, you know. It’s nice. Feels like I’m not so pathetic.”

“You are not pathetic, love.”

Martin knocks back the rest of his glass of wine. “I failed my instrument rating,” he says. “I failed my CPL four times.” As he’s speaking, he sinks lower and lower in his chair. “No one ever believes I’m the captain. They look at me and they see—”

“D’you want to know what _I_ see?” says John.

Martin looks blearily up at him.

“I see someone who’s not afraid of hard work and doesn’t give up easily. Someone who does a difficult, dangerous job for love, not just for money.” He reaches across the corner of the coffee table to brush Martin’s too-long fringe out of his eyes, and his mouth quirks up at one corner. “And also, someone who’d better drink a few glasses of water and get to bed, or he’s going to feel like proper hell in the morning.”

John levers himself up off the sofa, comes round to Martin’s chair, and bends to kiss the crown of his head.

* * *

“This doctor of yours,” says Douglas one morning in late January, apropos of absolutely nothing. “Did he live in London before settling in idyllic Fitton, by any chance?”

“Ye-es,” says Martin. “He did. Why?”

“Oh, just idle curiosity. And before that—perhaps Kandahar?”

“And Helmand,” Martin says, before his brain catches up and he demands, “How on earth did you know that?”

“Well, you did say he’d been in the army?”

“Oh. Oh, yes, I did.”

“There you are, then. Educated guess. Now, changing the subject abruptly and completely: famous detectives, real or fictional.”

“Hmm?”

“Inspector Morse.”

“What? Oh! Er … er … Brother Cadfael!”

* * *

“God, Martin. I love you.” John is breathless, almost panting – flushed and heavy-eyed – gazing down at Martin in the immediate aftermath of what from Martin’s perspective, at any rate, was a really spectacular shag. “I know, it’s such a cliché to say it now, but—”

Martin frowns, baffled, and John’s blue-velvet eyes go wide. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, it’s the other way round for you, isn’t it.” He sits back, his weight on his heels to spare Martin’s knees; cups Martin’s flushed face in his hands, gentle and careful. “I’ve just realized.”

“What?” Martin’s brain is so hazy that he can hardly talk, let alone think.

“You. I’ve wanted you almost since the moment I met you, but you—” John’s voice is slow and wondering in a way Martin can’t at all account for. “You want me now, you want … _this_ , _because you love me_.”

“I—” Martin blinks. “Yeah, I reckon that’s true.”

He thinks about this as he disentangles himself and shuffles off to the loo, and as he tidies himself up, and as he wets a clean flannel and pads back into the bedroom and tidies John up as well, and as he wriggles and shifts and pushes and tugs until he’s wrapped them up in each other and the duvet, finally tucking his head in under John’s chin.

John chuckles quietly and murmurs, “Pre-going-to-sleep checklist completed, Captain?”

“Oh, shut up,” Martin says, but kisses John’s shoulder to show he doesn’t mean it. And then, very softly – because it seems safe to say it, now that John has said it first – “I love you, too.”

* * *

“I got a really interesting email today,” John says a few days later, as they settle into a booth at the back of the pub.

Martin shifts slightly closer, close enough that their elbows might touch from time to time, and reflects how different pubs seem – how much more welcoming and homely – when he’s in them with John.

“Oh?” he says.

“Mmm.” John draws circles on the table with one forefinger. “From your friend Douglas.”

Martin looks up, frowning. “Douglas? Douglas _Richardson_? What – why? I mean … why?”

 _Four excellent questions_ , says the Douglas in his head. _Oh, shut up_ , thinks Martin, annoyed, and Douglas-in-his-head shuts up immediately, which the real Douglas never would.

“Well,” says John, “it seems like your second in command feels a bit … paternal about you.”

Martin chokes on his wine; John rubs his back till he’s calmed down and stopped coughing, then continues: “Seems to think you’re a bit of a sensitive plant, and need care and feeding. Particularly feeding.”

He gives Martin a tiny, secret smile. In repose, John’s face always looks so sad; Martin wonders when it became one of his goals in life to make John smile, and then decides he doesn’t care. Even if the proximate cause of the smile is Douglas bloody Richardson.

“Oh, and also, he strongly implied that if I don’t treat you as you ought to be treated, he’ll make sure very bad things happen to me.”

Martin, who has been gradually leaning toward John the way a houseplant gradually grows toward its source of light, jerks upright in sudden indignation.

“I’ll talk to him,” he promises darkly, glaring into his wineglass. “Nosy … interfering …”

“Martin.”

At the warm pressure of John’s hand on his arm, he looks up.

“It’s fine, love. Really,” John says. He squeezes Martin’s arm gently before taking his hand away.

Martin studies his face, and decides he actually does mean that. Martin, on the other hand, is still indignant, both at Douglas’s interfering and at the suggestion that John – _John_ – might ever mistreat Martin.

“I’m actually really glad to know you have friends like that,” John continues. “Looking out for you. Friends … friends are good.”

Is Martin just imagining it, or was John about to say something quite different?

“Douglas isn’t looking out for me,” he grumbles. “Or if he is, it’s only because he’s got some kind of scheme going.” This is possibly unfair – Douglas hasn’t done anything genuinely nasty to Martin in … well, ages, really – but that doesn’t mean it isn’t also true.

John makes a wry face that Martin wants to kiss the creases out of. The idea still startles him a little, even now that they’re … how they are. He reaches out and puts his hand over John’s on the table instead.

“Even so,” says John, turning his hand palm up under Martin’s and lacing their fingers together. Martin’s fingers are long and skinny, with slightly knobby knuckles and chewed-down nails; John’s are blunt and compact, the nails neatly trimmed.

There’s a long but not uncomfortable silence. Martin imagines John’s deft fingers dancing over his skin, cupping his cheek, threading through his hair; imagines them efficiently wielding a scalpel or setting a line of stitches.

“It’s ridiculous anyway,” he says at last. “You wouldn’t.”

“I might do,” says John. His tone suggests he’s aiming for _light_ , but if so, his aim is quite far off.

“Not on purpose,” he adds, over Martin’s inarticulate sound of protest. “Never on purpose. Just …”

John shakes his head slowly, looking down into his pint glass. “A wise man once told me never to make people into heroes. I resented the hell out of it at the time – and I still believe he was a better man than—well. Never mind. But me, Martin, he was right about me. I’m no hero.”

 _I don’t think he was talking about you_ , Martin thinks, but he doesn’t say it.

“I didn’t say you were,” he says instead. “But you’re a good man. Who treats me … well, a ruddy sight better than anyone else ever has. And Douglas can … can mind his own _sodding_ business.”

“Such language, Captain!”

John is teasing him, John is _definitely_ teasing him, but he’s also smiling (well, his _eyes_ are smiling), which is what Martin was going for. He scoots closer – just another inch or so – and bumps his shoulder into John’s.

“You said something about feeding me,” he says. “Any chance you meant right now? Jamie and Janelle ate all my leftovers from the fridge and I’m _starving_.”

* * *

“Remind me how you met this … John, is it?” Douglas’s tone is casual – too casual by half – and does he seriously think he can get away with pretending not to remember John’s name?

“I told you, I nearly hit him with my car,” Martin says, wary. “Well, someone else nearly hit him first. He cycles to work along Gilroy Road. Why?”

“Oh, well.” Again, much too casual. Does Douglas _want_ Martin to suspect him of something? “Just idle curiosity.”

But Martin has had enough. “I know you’ve been sending him threatening emails, Douglas,” he says crossly, “And you can bugger off out of it. I don’t need protecting, and John doesn’t need--”

“You do know who he is, yes?”

Martin frowns. “Of course I know who he is, Douglas, I’m _dating_ him.”

“Ah. I should perhaps have said, who he _was_.”

“Douglas—”

“I assure you I have absolutely no desire to hurl caltrops into the path of Sir’s epic romance. I do however have _slightly_ more experience in this arena than Sir, and therefore feel a certain responsibility to—”

“Douglas. Whatever it is you’re going to say, will you please just _say_ it.” Martin manages not to shout, but only by clenching his teeth tightly enough to make his jaw ache.

Instead of saying anything, however, Douglas reaches into his flight bag and pulls out his iPad. After thumbing it awake and putting in a passcode, he opens something up and passes the tablet to Martin.

Martin stares at the screen, his stomach dropping as if G-ERTI were losing altitude. (He glances up instinctively at the artificial horizon, at the altimeters; yes, the plane is still perfectly level at twenty-five thousand feet.)

“You have control,” he says distantly, and only half-hears Douglas’s _I have control, Captain_.

On the screen is an archived article from one of the London tabloids, published a year and a half ago. The headline screams _Suicide of Fake Genius_ in big boldface type, and below it is a photo: a tall dark-haired man in a long coat, looking imperious, and beside him…

A little younger, more stern and a great deal less sad, but unmistakeably John.

Martin forces himself to read the text around the photo. Sherlock Holmes, it says, a private detective in London who consulted for the police, believed to be a genius and now revealed to be a fraud. Couldn’t handle the public scrutiny, threw himself off a four-storey building. There’s more – loads more – but Martin’s eye catches on one sentence: _In what many see as a deliberately vicious parting shot, Holmes made his dramatic leap in front of not only dozens of passersby but also his companion and blogger, Dr John Watson._

Martin’s heart stutters. _I had this friend,_ he remembers John saying. _And he died._ And later, _He was a detective._ And _If I_ had _told him – if he’d known—_

 _Watson refuses to talk to the media_ , Martin reads, _but has closed out his famous blog with one brief, heartbreaking message: ‘He was my best friend and I will always believe in him.’_

“Oh, God, John,” Martin breathes. _He_ was _clever_ , John said _. He was a genius._

He’s completely forgotten that Douglas is there – and even, in fact, where he is himself – until Douglas says, “I’m sorry, Martin. I thought you ought to know.”

“I did know,” Martin says, instantly on the defensive. “He told me all of it, except his friend’s name.”

Which isn’t strictly true, but he refuses to let Douglas think John’s lied to him. And John hasn’t, or at least this isn’t proof that he has: it’s only proof of details he left out.

Douglas’s silence is somehow audibly sceptical.

“You do see why Carolyn and I might be … concerned,” he says at last. _Oh, God, Carolyn is in on this too._ “Given how his previous relationship ended.”

“They weren’t—”

“Golf Tango India,” says the radio, “this is Kristiansand, contact Oslo on one-seven-two decimal four.”

“Golf Tango India. Thank you, Kristiansand, roger Oslo on one-seven-two decimal four. They weren’t together.”

“Say again, Golf Tango India?”

 _Bloody hell._ “Apologies, Kristiansand.” Martin makes sure the mic really is keyed off this time before turning to Douglas and repeating, “They weren’t together. They were friends, not … that.”

“According to John.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Douglas shrugs eloquently.

Martin growls at him, and the rest of the flight to Oslo is conducted in spiky silence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kristiansand, Norway, is a real place, but Kristiansand ATC is very likely fictional. 
> 
> The radio frequency on which Martin is told to contact Oslo: also completely made up. (I do not even pretend to understand how aircraft radio frequencies work.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some more texts, with feeling; a present from Arthur; a serious conversation, with giggling.

Arrived safely in Oslo

More or less

_WHAT_

No no no I AM FINE, I promise, we are all fine!

Sorry :(

_thank god_

Just very very angry with D

_because?_

He WILL NOT SHUT UP about you

I swear he thinks there are terrible secrets in your past that I don't know about

Or possibly he's just jealous

I don't know

But if he doesn't stop it and just LET ME HAVE THIS ONE THING I will not be held responsible for my actions

Also I love you

_there are terrible secrets in my past. i think i've told you about most of them_

_i have mentioned before that i'm fucked up_

_and i love you, martin_

_i'm sorry i dont tell you as often as i should_

Stop it

I've never pretended you were perfect but you are perfect FOR ME

John, I have to ask you something

_?_

Your friend, the one who died

Was he called Sherlock Holmes?

_…_

John?

_…_

John, I'm sorry

You don't have to say if it's private

It's really fine, it's all fine

I'm sorry

_i take it you saw the blog. or some old tabloid story. I should have told you, i know that, i should have trusted you, i do trust you. the thing is, i came to_

_Fitton to get away from it. From everything that happened with Sherlock. It was everywhere in London and i couldn't cope with it. I ran away. I didn't realise_

_I was running toward you but im so thankful i did. Martin, Sherlock saved my life after Afghanistan and i will never forget him. but you are NOT second best. ne_

_Never think that. I'll understand if this is one fuck-up too many but i hope you can forgive me for being a fucking idiot._

Stop it

Stop it stop it STOP IT

You are not an idiot

And D will never let me live it down if he sees I've been crying

So just stop, ok?

What I wanted to say was that I'm so, so sorry for what happened

And if you say he wasn't a fake, then I believe you

_he wasn't_

_he was an unbelievably annoying dickhead who kept body parts in our fridge and shot holes in the walls when he got bored and didn't know when to shut up_

_and he was brave and brilliant and amazing and the best man i’ve ever known_

_except you_

I'm nothing like that

Well, except for "annoying" which I've been told describes me quite well

_you know that isnt what i meant_

I love you

But I think you might be delusional

_when do you get back to fitton_

1930 tomorrow, in theory

_i'll see you then_

_we'll talk about this, or anything else you like_

_goodnight love xxx_

Goodnight xxx

* * *

“Don’t start, Douglas.”

“I beg your pardon, Captain?”

Martin forces himself to meet Douglas’s wide I’m-so-innocent brown eyes. “Yes, I look like I’ve been crying. No, I do not want to talk about it. Not now, probably not ever. Yes, I have still got a boyfriend – no thanks to you – and no, I do not need commiserating with. Have you done the walk-round?”

Douglas’s eyebrows have completely vanished under the brim of his cap. “Just about to start it now.”

“Fine. Good.” Martin sits down and picks up the clipboard to start the pre-takeoff checks. “I’ve picked up the weather. Minus fifteen. Clear skies at Fitton, but some cloud buildup along the route.”

“Flight plan, Captain?”

“Yes, filed. Er, Douglas …”

“Yes, Captain?”

Martin wonders how long Douglas is going to keep this up. “Have you seen Arthur?”

It’s immediately obvious that Douglas hasn’t; he drops the faux-innocent look and frowns as he says, “I thought he was with you.”

 _Arthur, you clot!_ Martin rolls his eyes, digs out his mobile, and dials Arthur’s number.

“Hi, Skip!” Arthur sounds reassuringly Arthur-normal.

“Arthur, where are you? We’re meant to be taking off in thirty minutes!”

“Oh! Are we? Sorry, Skip! It’s just, there’s this shop that has—”

“Twenty-nine minutes, Arthur.”

“Sorry! Be right there, Skip!”

Martin rubs his forehead, where a headache is threatening.

* * *

Arthur arrives fourteen and a half minutes later, out of breath and beaming, and carrying an enormous plush polar bear under one arm and … good Lord, is that a _skull_?

“Hi, chaps!” he pants at them.

“Hello, Arthur,” says Douglas.

Martin doesn’t say anything; he needs to finish up the pre-flight checks and anyway he really doesn’t want to know.

But Arthur is lying in wait, apparently, because he ambushes Martin the second he looks up from his clipboard, and thrusts the … yes, it literally is a squashy plush skull … into his arms.

“This is for you, Skip!” he says.

“Er…”

“I mean, it’s not for _you_ , it’s for you to give to John, as a souvenir! Because he’s a doctor! And it’s a skull! Feel it, it’s lovely and soft.”

“Arthur, I—”

“Oh, it’s no problem, Skip! I was getting this polar bear for Mum anyway.”

Arthur (with polar bear) bounds out of the flight deck, leaving Martin clutching the checklist clipboard in one hand and a plush skull in the other.

He squeezes it experimentally. It is indeed very soft.

* * *

Martin stuffs the skull into his flight bag, and by the time they land (ten minutes early) he’s more or less forgotten about it. When he turns on his phone after finishing the post-landing checks, the screen fills with incoming texts: one from Talkmobile with his monthly bill, one from Caitlin reminding him it’s Mum’s birthday this week (it’s typical of Caitlin to assume he’ll just forget), one from Emily about the Parkside Terrace fridge making an ominous noise, and three from John:

_ring me when you’re back_

_please_

_dinner at mine? i can get takeaway. i'm really sorry._

Martin smiles sadly. _Oh, John._

“Martin,” John says, when he picks up his phone. “Hi.”

“Hi,” says Martin. “We’re back. Am I still invited for takeaway? D’you want me to pick it up on the way there? I can go by Seoul Sisters--”

“No,” says John. “I mean, yes, of course you are, but no, you don’t have to. I’ll phone. And it’s my treat.”

“It’s fine, I don’t—”

“If you don’t have to stop at Seoul Sisters, you’ll be here sooner.”

“… oh. Right. Okay.”

* * *

John opens the door of his flat wearing jeans and socks and his thick oatmeal jumper, his face wary and contained. Martin drops his flight bag at his feet and hugs him, hard. After a tense moment, John’s arms come up around his back, and they sag towards each other in relief.

Martin feels the change in John’s breathing as he draws breath to speak, and clings tighter. For the first time, it occurs to him that Douglas might also have been trying to warn _him_ to tread carefully with _John_.

“I don’t care,” he says; and then, realizing how that sounds, “I mean I don’t _not_ care. I _do_ care, I care about _you_. I mean it doesn’t matter. No, that’s not— I mean it’s not a problem that you didn’t tell me every single detail right away, it’s fine, you’re—”

“Martin.”

Martin pulls back far enough to look at John.

Who’s smiling at him with laughing lips and sad, sad eyes. “Er, can we not do this in the corridor?”

Martin’s face goes hot. “O-o-of course. Sorry.”

* * *

The takeaway arrives within five minutes of Martin, and they spread it out on the coffee table and eat it out of the cartons. Martin controls his urge to babble, and slowly, slowly, the whole story comes out.

By the end, the takeaway leftovers have been abandoned and they’re sitting on the floor in front of the couch, curled up together, and John’s halting words are spoken almost right into Martin’s left ear. John’s chin digs into Martin’s shoulder, his end-of-the-day stubble rasps against Martin’s neck; his hands clutch at Martin’s t-shirt, his ribs expand and contract against Martin’s. The fingers of Martin’s left hand are buried in John’s soft hair, his right hand splayed across John’s shoulder-blades and spine.

John hasn’t cried at all – Martin suspects he’s never let himself cry, and probably ought to – but Martin’s face is wet and he’s no longer trying to conceal his periodic sniffing.

“I don’t know what to say,” he says, finally. His voice comes out hoarse and creaky.

John huffs a ragged laugh.

“So long as it’s not _it’s not you, it’s me_ ,” he says. “Because we both know it bloody well _is_ me.”

Martin goes still in appalled surprise. “ _John_ ,” he says.

John straightens up, wincing; sits back a little way, crossing his arms on his drawn-up knees. “It’s okay, Martin,” he says. He sounds tired and sad. “It’s fine. I’m not blaming you, nobody would.”

“John,” Martin says again. It’s just hit him like a sucker-punch, what’s happening here. _No no no no no!_ “Oh my God, you think I’m going to, to, to _drop_ you because, be-because you’ve got some _issues_ , you think I’m—”

“I’m not good for you, love,” John says. “I’m going to hurt you, I don’t want to but I will, sooner or later—”

“ _I don’t care_ ,” Martin interrupts, passionately. They may have agreed that this was just for now, but that was before, before Martin said _Yes, please_ and John said _I love you_ , and he’s not letting go without a fight. “It’ll get better. It _will_. You’ll keep going to therapy, and we’ll keep making new memories together, and you won’t forget but it’ll get easier, it will.”

“I know.” John looks up at the ceiling, sucks in a breath. “I just. I can’t. Martin, listen—”

“You said you wanted to try. You said, you said I mattered to you.” _You said you loved me._ Martin swallows hard. “If you really don’t want to b-b-be with me, that’s, I won’t try to, to stop you going.” That’s a stupid thing to say, he realizes, when he’s sitting in John’s flat, full of takeaway that John ordered and paid for. _Doesn’t matter. John always understands what I mean._ “Just tell me honestly, though, is, is that it, d-d-do you want out?”

Then he shuts his mouth firmly and watches, tamping down the sick feeling of dread. Because John is as bad at telling lies as Arthur is, if in an entirely different way, so whatever John says next, Martin will know one way or the other.

But John doesn’t try to lie. He slumps sideways against the seat of the sofa, casts a miserable glance at Martin, and says, “No.”

Martin’s heart bounds in crashing relief. “ _Good_ ,” he says fiercely. “Nor do I. So – so, so we’ll make it work.”

“Martin—”

“Don’t. Just … just don’t.”

Martin scrambles to his feet, stiff and achy as much from emotional strain as from sitting on the floor, and holds out a hand; after a moment, John takes it, and Martin pulls him up. It’s not at all accidental that he keeps hold of John’s hand and uses the motion to tug him forward into a hug. This time there’s no moment of tension; John’s arms go round him straight away, and hold on hard.

“I don’t deserve you.”

Martin hears the choked-out words, though he’s not sure he was meant to. “Yes, you do,” he says, squeezing tight, and meaning _I love you, too_. “Come to bed.”

“Martin—”

“Just to sleep, if you want,” Martin clarifies hastily. “I just meant—I’m tired, and—”

John’s shaking in his arms, and a horrified few seconds later Martin realizes he’s _laughing_. Clutching at Martin’s shirt and leaning into Martin’s shoulder and _laughing._

“I’m sorry,” John says, after a bit, straightening up and letting go of Martin to scrub one sleeve across his eyes. “I shouldn’t giggle, it’s a serious conversation. Just …”

Martin is staring at him, utterly baffled by and overwhelmed with fondness for this inexplicable man. “I like it when you laugh,” he says, without exactly meaning to; John has that effect on him, he’s noticed it before.

John smiles at him, smiles with his eyes and his whole face, and Martin can’t not smile back.

For the first time since Douglas showed him that awful headline, it feels like things really actually will be okay.

* * *

But when he wakes up the next morning and goes into the kitchen in search of coffee, he finds John sitting at the table, with Martin’s flight bag open at his feet, staring at Arthur’s stupid stuffed skull as if he’s seen a ghost.

“John?” Martin says hesitantly, pausing in the doorway.

John looks up at him. “There was a skull in your flight bag,” he says. “A bloody _skull_.”

Martin sighs. “It was Arthur,” he explains. “He saw it in a shop at the airport in Oslo, when he was buying Carolyn an enormous plush polar bear, which I’m at least ninety percent sure was also a bad idea, and he bought it for you. I know it’s stupid and inappropriate, which is just one of the reasons I left it stuffed in my flight bag instead of giving it to you, but I promise he meant well.”

John blinks at him. “But … _why_? Why would he buy me anything? And why a plush toy, and for God’s sake why a _skull_?”

“Because … well … Arthur,” says Martin, with a helpless shrug. “I mean, you _met_ him. You … kind of get used to it.”

John seems to contemplate this for a few minutes. At last he says, “I need to show you something.”

* * *

_Something_ turns out to be a photo of John and, and _Sherlock_ in what John says is (was) their flat in Westminster (“It wasn’t nearly as posh as it sounds,” John told him last night, “and the landlady gave Sherlock a deal on the rent because he made sure her husband never got out of prison”).

“Look,” John says, pointing.

Martin looks. Frowns. “Is that … is that a _skull_?” he says. “Like, a real one?”

“Yep.”

“And you kept it on the mantel.”

“ _I_ didn’t,” says John. “Sherlock did.”

“But,” says Martin, “ _why_?”

And John says, “Because … Sherlock.” His mouth quirks. “I got used to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to the Interwebz, there are various entities called Seoul Sisters, but none of them is a Korean takeaway place in Fitton (or, so far as I can tell, in any real city in England either).
> 
> The plush skull which Arthur buys for John is [ this one](http://breadpig.com/products/yorick-plush). I have one on my desk (thank you, spousal unit!) and can attest that it is really squishy, soft and great for hugging. I think it probably isn’t for sale in any gift shops in Oslo airport, though. (Maybe in Copenhagen. It is, after all, Yorick.)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aftermath of a nightmare; aftermath of a goose smoothie.

John warned Martin about his nightmares the first time Martin spent the night – _I have bad dreams, sometimes_ , he said, half wary and half ashamed _. I’ll try not to wake you. Best not to try and touch me, just in case._ – but it’s not until the middle of February that Martin actually witnesses one. In retrospect, he realizes he should have seen it coming.

John’s worked a four-to-midnight shift, and Martin’s come in the van to collect him so he won’t have to take the bus home in the February cold. He slumps into the passenger seat and lets his head fall back; Martin unbuckles his seatbelt long enough to lean over and manhandle John into his, and they drive back to John’s in near silence.

It’s dark in the van and dark on the pavement outside, but the stairwell in John’s building is lit to eye-searing brightness, and when Martin gets his first good look at John’s face he knows it must have been a bad shift.

“Want to talk about it?” he ventures, as they trudge up the stairs. John’s visibly limping, which he almost never does, and Martin stays slightly behind him just in case.

“Fuck no,” John says, curt to the point of hostility; but then, not ten seconds later and in a quite different tone, “Sorry. I’m sorry. I appreciate the offer. But not right now.”

“Okay,” says Martin.

They get to the top of the stairs; John fumbles with the key to the fire door, clumsy with fatigue, and Martin gently takes his keys from him, opens the door, ushers him through it into the corridor. He takes John’s hand with his free one, strokes his thumb softly back and forth across John’s knuckles.

Inside the flat, he helps John out of his coat before removing his own, hangs them both on the hooks on the back of the door. “Tea?” he offers quietly.

“Mmm,” says John, rubbing one eye with the heel of his hand.

There’s something in John’s hair, Martin notices; something sticky, like paint, clumping the short strands together into spikes. He leans a bit closer and has to control an instinctive recoil when he realizes it’s dried blood.

Not John’s, though: it’s stuck to the tips of his hair, not welling up from his scalp. _Thank God._

“Go and sit down,” Martin murmurs, squeezing John’s good shoulder gently. “I’ll be right there.”

John turns away toward the sofa, and Martin, troubled, to the kitchen.

* * *

When he carries the mugs of tea through to the lounge, he’s half expecting to find John passed out on the sofa from sheer exhaustion, but John’s still upright, though he’s staring into space in a vague, unfocused way.

Martin deposits the mugs on the coffee table and sits down beside John -- not so close that their knees or elbows touch, but nearly.

“Tea,” he says, laying one hand on John’s thigh.

John blinks – Martin sees his long lashes slowly fall, then rise, in side-lit profile – then slowly turns his head to look at Martin. He blinks again, focusing.

Then suddenly Martin’s in his arms, squashed against his broader chest, and John’s blunt strong fingers are cupping the back of his skull, carefully probing its contours.

He doesn’t understand what’s going on in John’s head, but it takes only a split-second to decide it doesn’t matter: if what John needs right now is an industrial-strength hug, then Martin will deliver, and worry about everyone’s motivations later. Or not at all.

He wraps his arms round John’s back and hangs on for dear life.

* * *

John’s in bed and sound asleep by one o’clock, and Martin drops off soon afterwards. He’s woken again just before three by John howling “No!”

Martin sits up, pushes his fringe out of his eyes and peers at John in the mostly-darkness. He lies belly-down near the far edge of the bed, half-turned toward Martin; his eyes are closed, his face crumpled up in grief, and his right arm is extended, reaching – clutching at something, or after something, just inches from Martin’s pillow.

“John?” Martin says, quietly. John said not to touch him if he had a nightmare, but he didn’t say Martin shouldn’t _speak_ to him. “John—”

“No, let me through.” John’s voice is low, indistinct. Pleading. Desperate. “He’s my friend. Please, let me through.”

Martin’s heart clenches. He knows better, but he can’t help it: he reaches for John’s clutching hand.

* * *

By morning, the bruises circling Martin’s left wrist have darkened to a livid purple-red. He tugs the sleeve of his jumper down to cover them, but it rides up when he reaches for the coffee pot, and though he immediately yanks his hand back, the damage is already done.

“What happened to your wrist?” John says, frowning at him across the tiny kitchen table.

“It’s nothing – I banged it yesterday – moving a wardrobe—”

“Bollocks.”

He holds out his right hand, demanding, and Martin reluctantly extends his arm. John cradles Martin’s hand in his right, turning it this way and that, as he delicately probes the wrist with his left index finger. His frown deepens into a scowl. “Who did this?”

“Nobody, I—” Martin’s not as bad at lying as Arthur, but he’s bad enough. Torn between the horrible feeling that clutches at his belly from trying to lie to John and the equally horrible idea of how John’s going to feel when he finds out what really happened, he finally opts for the truth: “Look, it’s my own fault, you told me not to touch you if you had a nightmare but I just—”

“ _Jesus!_ ” John drops Martin’s hand like it’s burnt him, shoves himself back from the table and up out of his chair. “Oh, my God, Martin—”

His face is grey, horror-struck, his eyes wide and dark.

Martin follows him out of the kitchen, protesting: “It’s fine. It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt, John, I promise, I’m fine, it’s not your fault—”

John drops into the armchair like his strings have been cut, and hides his face in his hands, drawing long, shaky breaths. Martin falls onto his knees at John’s feet, still babbling because he can’t seem to stop – grabs at John’s hands, tries to pull them away from his face – kneels up taller to wrap his arms around John, tight tight tight, as though he could squeeze the horrified expression off John’s face.

They stay like that for a long, long time. Martin’s litany of _It’s fine, I’m fine, it’s not your fault_ eventually runs down into little hiccoughing sobs, suppressed as best he can manage because the last thing he wants is for John to be _more_ upset because stupid, _stupid_ Martin is _crying_.

At last John stirs in Martin’s embrace. It feels like he’s trying to get free, and Martin’s brain knows he should let go but his arms have other ideas, and try to squeeze John tighter.

“Martin,” John says softly. “Martin, love, it’s okay to let go now.”

Sheepishly, keeping his wet face averted, Martin does. He pulls away, sits back on his haunches, pulls his knees up to his chin and curls up into a tight little parcel, making sure to keep his bruised wrist out of sight.

There’s a hand in his hair, carding slowly, gently through the snarled-up curls. Martin can’t help pushing up a little into the touch, though he tries.

“I handled that incredibly badly,” John says. His voice is very soft; he sounds like a person speaking to a wild creature, or a skittish pet, trying not to scare it away. “I’m sorry. I hurt you, and then I made it worse. I’m so sorry, Martin. Can I, will you let me look now? I promise not to … not to do that again.”

Wordlessly, Martin uncoils his left arm and holds out his wrist again for John’s inspection.

John’s fingers are unimaginably gentle. He turns Martin’s hand this way and that, and then—

Martin raises his head.

John’s head is bent, and, yes, he’s pressing tiny, soft kisses to Martin’s wrist. To the bruises his own fingers left on Martin’s skin.

He raises his face to look down at Martin, sitting at his feet.

“I hate that I hurt you,” he says, and his gaze skates away over Martin’s shoulder. It’s not unexpected. “I should have known that I would. I’ll probably do it again. I understand if—”

“Who … who did you think I was?” Martin asks, because this has been niggling at him. He has a theory; he needs to know for sure. And he doesn’t want to hear John’s litany of self-recrimination again, hates that John still feels those doubts about himself, about _them_. “In your dream? It felt like you were … trying to take my pulse? I think?”

His voice trails off uncertainly.

John’s eyes close, and a shadow passes across his face – that’s always struck Martin as a stupid metaphor, but now he sees its meaning plain as day.

“Sherlock,” he whispers. “I thought you were Sherlock.”

Martin nods – to himself, not to John, whose eyes are still closed in silent anguish. _Yes, that’s what I thought. Well done me._

_Fuck, this is difficult._

“Okay,” he says at last. “Okay.” He clambers to his feet and rests one hand on John’s slumped shoulder. “Come and have a cup of tea.”

John chuckles wanly. “I don’t think tea is going to fix this, love.”

“Well, it’s a start,” says Martin.

* * *

That night Martin showers off his dusty, exhausting day in the van (shuttling boxes of archived files from someone’s basement to the offices of the Fitton Historical Society) and puts everything he’s learned from John to good use, lips and hands and tongue and voice united in saying _I love you_ as clearly and variously as he can possibly manage. After, they fall asleep tangled together in a sweaty, sticky mess.

Martin wakes in the middle of the night, remembering that he forgot to set his alarm, and when he’s done that he lies there for a bit with his eyes closed and his nose buried in the soft hair at the nape of John’s neck, whispering those same words over and over until he falls asleep again.

* * *

Douglas and Carolyn have gone off to look after G-ERTI; Martin sits in the crew lounge and tries not to shake.

“Here you are, Skip!” Arthur offers a paper beaker and a wide smile. “Nice hot cup of coffee!”

Martin takes it gratefully and sips, but—“Ugh! It’s cold.”

“Nice cup of coffee,” says Arthur.

Martin tries another sip, but no. “It’s horrible!”

“Cup of coffee,” Arthur offers.

Martin isn’t even sure it is coffee, and says so.

“Cup,” says Arthur at last, and Martin can’t argue with that. “How’re you feeling?”

“Feeling?” says Martin, blankly. “Feeling – I’m feeling – feeling fine, why, why do you ask, I’m absolutely fine, fine.” It occurs to him that when last heard from, Arthur was falling over drunk. “How, er, how, how’re you? Sobered up, Have you?”

“Yeah, I have, actually,” says Arthur. “It turns out a really good cure for being drunk is when you’re on a plane and then an engine explodes and you think you’re gonna die.”

* * *

Arthur goes off to look for more drinkable coffee, and Martin digs his phone out of his pocket with a slightly unsteady hand.

Good morning

First the good news: We are all OK, and no one is dead (except the goose)

_Omg martin_

_Srsly what_

Bad news: the plane now has only one engine

And Carolyn doesn't have 250k for a new one, so am stuck in St Ptrsbrg until further notice and almost certainly will have no job when i get home

_oh martin love_

_i'm so sorry_

_what happened???_

Birdstrike on takeoff, probably goose, had to land w/o no2 engine

_holy shit martin_

in what D called 'a hell of a crosswind'

_jesus, r u ok?_

I'm … ok, I think

I'm not completely sure

I did land the plane on one engine, though

Never would have thought I could do that

Martin’s phone rings. He’s annoyed with whoever it is for interrupting his conversation with John, but picks up anyway, in case it’s an emergency. Or a van job, because God knows he’s going to need all the van jobs he can get: no MJN means no in-flight catering and no per-diems on layovers, and he can’t just sponge off John forever.

“Martin Crieff,” he says, without looking at the number. “Icarus Re—”

“Martin, thank God.” John’s voice is tight with suppressed … something. “Are you all right? Is everyone all right?”

Martin can feel his face doing something complicated as his body and brain debate whether to laugh or weep or jump up and down or just collapse. “John!” he says. “Yes, I promise we’re fine. Well. All except G-ERTI.”

“Oh, is that John?” Arthur exclaims from somewhere behind him. Martin nearly jumps out of his skin. “Hi, John!”

“Er … hi, Arthur,” says John in Martin’s ear. He sounds bemused, but Martin can also hear him relaxing, as though Arthur being cheerful means things really are okay.

Which is a bit absurd, given that John has actually _met_ Arthur, but never mind.

“Did you tell him about your landing, Skip?”

“No, Arthur, I—”

“Aw, you should’ve seen it, John, it was _brilliant!_ It was like Douglas did it, but—”

“Go away, Arthur,” Martin says, but kindly. “Just for a bit.”

“Right-oh, Skip!” Arthur says, and does.

Martin slumps down in his seat and, still holding the phone to his ear with one hand, covers his eyes with the opposite arm. “You didn’t have to ring,” he says. “I mean, no, God, I’m glad you did, thank you, it’s really good to hear your voice—”

John huffs a sheepish sort of laugh. “I didn’t phone you because I thought you needed to hear my voice, love,” he says. “I phoned you because I needed to hear yours.”

“Oh,” Martin says softly. He thinks his heart may actually be melting. “That’s … oh.”

“And you really are all okay?”

Martin nods, then remembers John can’t see him ( _stupid!_ ) and says, “We really are. I’m … actually … it sounds awful to say this, but … John, I landed the plane! _I_ did, on one engine! And she’s fine, except for the engine fire I mean—”

“Jesus, Martin! _Engine_ _fire_?”

“Well – yes – that wasn’t really the _main_ point of—”

He hears John doing the deep-breathing exercise he does when he’s had a bad nightmare. After a moment John says, “Okay, explain to me what _was_ the main point?”

“That it was me who landed the plane. Not Douglas, _me_. And Douglas didn’t argue with me about it, and I kept my head and did it first go. Just like a real pilot!”

There’s an astonished silence down the phone, which gives Martin time to realize what he’s just said and start wishing he could find a black hole to fall into. He’s about to start babbling excuses when John says, “Martin, you _are_ a real pilot. Of _course_ you landed the plane. You’re a perfectly competent—”

“I took five goes to get my CPL,” Martin breaks in, entirely without meaning to – it’s as though his mouth is on autopilot, and the approach vector he’s selected is _crash and burn_.“AndI had to retake my instrument rating. And I applied to every flying school in England and none of them would take me. And—”

“Martin—”

“You know Carolyn doesn’t pay me, I make my living from Dad’s old van, the flying’s just a—”

“ _Martin Alasdair Crieff._ ”

Martin’s spine straightens and his mouth snaps shut. Suddenly the vague, hitherto largely unconsidered notion of Captain John H. Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, takes vivid shape in his mind, and the part of him that’s still Junior Corporal Crieff of H.M. Air Cadets has to struggle not to salute.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Y-y-yes, s—” He swallows. “Yes, John.”

“Good. Now. You may be the Martin Crieff who failed the CPL four times, but you’re also the Martin Crieff who went back a fifth time and fucking passed it. And you’re not sad little Martin who didn’t get into flying school anymore, you’re Captain Crieff who did whatever it took and _learned to fly a fucking plane anyway_. You are the most dedicated, tenacious, bloody-minded little sod I know, and if I’m ever on a plane with one engine on fire there’s nobody I’d rather have landing it. You are not fucking second best, soldier, _is that understood?_ ”

“I— I—” Martin has no idea what to say, and isn’t sure he could say it even if he did: he was ( _is_ ) proud of himself for that landing, but John wants him to be proud of himself _for_ _being himself_ , and that’s just…

Eventually he manages, “John?”

And whatever John hears in his voice, it makes short work of Captain Watson.

“Oh, God, Martin,” John says, low and raw. “Thank God you’re okay.”

“I am,” says Martin, a bit surprised to find he means it: he’s done a good day’s piloting work, he could have fucked up that landing but he didn’t, everyone’s in one piece, and to top it all off, John loves him just the way he is. “I really am.”

Now, if only they can sort out something for poor old G-ERTI…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what Martin’s canonical middle name is (if he has one) but I liked the rhythm of Alasdair, and it’s also Scots in origin, to go with Crieff. (I confess I also like the symmetry of both Martin and John having Scots-sounding middle names that they don’t like to tell people about.)
> 
> Arthur and Martin's conversation about coffee and cures for drunkenness is, of course, the work of the inimitable John Finnemore. All hail.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a failure to communicate; an apology; a party; a proposition.

“Did Douglas do something clever and now everything’s all right?” Arthur says, yawning.

There’s a long pause before Douglas says, with great restraint, “Yes.”

“There you are, then!” Arthur’s tone is a sort of amalgam of triumph and exasperation. “Exactly what I said all along. I wish you lot would _listen_ to me sometimes!”

He leads the way back to the hangar. Behind his back, Martin, Douglas and Carolyn exchange a look.

* * *

They’re still flushed with triumph when they land in Fitton three hours later.

“Post-landing checks completed, Captain,” Douglas says cheerfully.

“Thank you, Douglas.” Martin grins.

He stands, stretches, and turns on his phone, then nearly drops it when it explodes with text alerts, voicemail sounds, and, not ten seconds later, the opening bars of “Brown Eyed Girl.”

“John?” he says, ignoring Douglas’s very poorly suppressed snort of laughter.

“Where the hell are you?” John’s voice is tight, almost angry, and Martin abruptly – and very belatedly – realizes that when he and John last spoke, G-ERTI still had only one engine and Martin was indefinitely detained in Russia. “I thought— I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”

“Er,” says Martin. “Er, I’m at the airfield, we’ve just landed, I’ve had my phone turned off, because—”

“The airfield? The airfield _here?_ How did you—”

“Oh – well – Carolyn’s ex-husband tried to steal G-ERTI, so—”

“But last night you said you were down one engine and stranded in Russia indefinitely.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Martin,” says Douglas, “give me your phone.”

“What?”

“Give me,” and Douglas holds out his hand, his expression expectant, “your phone.”

Martin, baffled into compliance, does.

“Doctor Watson, I presume,” says Douglas into the phone. He’s using his Sky-God voice, Martin notes. “Douglas Richardson here.” Pause. “Yes, that one.”

He turns away from Martin and walks down the aisle; by the time he speaks again, he has nearly reached the back of the plane, and Martin can no longer make out the words.

Martin realizes his nervous fidgeting is perilously close to shredding the end of his tie; he grips the handle of his flight bag, forcing his hands to stillness. His stomach is churning, and his appetite is entirely gone.

Finally Douglas turns back towards him and begins walking up the aisle.

“I’m so glad we understand one another, Doctor Watson,” he purrs into the phone, in a frankly terrifying manner; and to Martin, “Here you are, Captain.”

Martin takes the phone and holds it to his ear. “Hi,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m—”

“I’m sorry,” John says, cutting off Martin’s apology. Martin’s eyes fly open in surprise. _What on earth did Douglas say to him?_ “I was … concerned.”

“Can I …” Martin hesitates, not quite able to say _I need a hug, or possibly quite a lot of hugs_. “Could I come round to yours? For, for a cup of coffee?”

John laughs, warm and honest and not at all angry any more. “I’ll put the kettle on,” he says.

* * *

Martin gets himself to John’s somehow, still running on adrenaline probably, and hauls his flight bag up the stairs to John’s front door. It feels like he’s done all of this before, only this time the secret-keeping – unintentional as it may have been – is on his side, and the forgiving (at least, Martin fervently hopes there’s going to be forgiving) is on John’s.

He knocks, and the door opens, and this time it’s John who lunges for Martin, wrapping him up in a firm, emphatic hug. Martin fights the instinct to collapse into a post-crisis puddle of pilot-flavoured goo in John’s arms, and ultimately loses.

“I am _so pissed off_ with you,” John mutters into Martin’s hair.

“I’m sorry,” says Martin. “I should have phoned or texted or—”

“No.” John sighs. “No, you had more important things on your mind. I was worried, and when I couldn’t reach you I overreacted. Acted like a right twat, actually. Not your fault. I’ll, um. I’ll take it up with Nina this week.”

Nina is John’s therapist, apparently a less useless one than Ella whom he used to see in London.

John releases Martin, with a haphazard kiss to the left earlobe, and grabs the handle of Martin’s flight bag with one hand and Martin’s elbow with the other.

“Tea,” he says.

Propelled toward the kitchen by John’s grip on his elbow, Martin thinks about tea, and thinks about John.

“Bed,” he suggests.

“Hmm?” John turns to look at him, little vertical pleats of bafflement forming between his eyebrows. “What’s that, love?”

“ _Bed_ ,” Martin repeats. “Not tea.” He looks at John; he can feel his ears turning red, and then his cheeks.

John’s eyes widen; he licks his lips. Maybe … maybe …

Martin extricates his elbow and uses both hands to grab John’s shoulders and back him against the fridge. Martin leans in, suddenly desperate for _more more more_.

“Please,” he whispers against John’s mouth. _We could have died. I could have killed us all._ “Please.”

John’s hands are gripping Martin’s hips, his heart thumping against Martin’s ribcage. “Anything,” he breathes. “God, Martin, anything you want, it’s yours.”

* * *

Arthur and Herc – and isn’t that a bizarre combination of words, thinks Martin – are throwing Carolyn a surprise birthday party.

“I think this might be the worst idea Arthur’s ever had,” Martin says to Douglas, as soon as the flight-deck door closes behind Arthur.

“Worse than fizzy yoghurt and Surprising Rice?” Douglas raises one eyebrow. “Fuel balanced, Captain. Worse than Helsinki?”

“Thank you, Douglas. I don’t know, but I would’ve thought that whole business might clue him in to the fact that Carolyn’s not actually all that keen on birthday surprises.”

“Would you, though? And yet you’ve known Arthur for literally _years_.”

Martin can’t help laughing.

“In any case, Martin,” says Douglas, “I think your concern is a bit premature, given that surprise parties do tend to rely on the conspirators’ ability to lie convincingly to their target.”

“True,” Martin concedes.

The flight-deck door opens again.

“Coffee, chaps!” Arthur announces.

“Thank you, Arthur,” says Martin, and sucks down a grateful swig. “Listen, about this party—”

“Ssshh!” Arthur hisses, looking about him shiftily.

“You do realize, Arthur, that your mother is not actually on the plane?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“Which means,” Douglas continues, “that unless we deliberately phone her on the satcom, there is literally no possibility of her overhearing us.”

“Right, but – well, you just never know, do you?”

“ _You_ may never know,” says Douglas. “I, on the other hand, definitely do know. We are here, Carolyn is in Fitton, the satcom is not in use, and I can absolutely promise you that no one can hear you apart from Martin, myself and the flight deck voice recorder. So, Martin, you were saying?”

Having had all this time to think the matter through and to imagine Arthur’s reaction, Martin nearly doesn’t say anything at all; but isn’t it better for Arthur to be a bit disappointed now, than to face the wrath of Carolyn later?

“The thing is, Arthur,” he says carefully, “I don’t think your mum actually _likes_ surprises very much.”

“Oh, Skip, _everyone_ likes surprises!” says Arthur, undaunted. “Surprises are—”

“Brilliant, yes. The thing _is_ , though … well, remember Helsinki?”

Arthur droops a bit, and Martin immediately feels like a terrible person. But Arthur is, after all, _Arthur_ , and after not more than half a minute he brightens right up again and says, “But that wasn’t because it was a _surprise_. It was just me being stupid and giving her the wrong _kind_ of surprise! And that won’t happen this time, because Herc’s going to help.”

“… right,” says Martin. He glances at Douglas in mute appeal. “Although—”

“I’m sure the party will be just lovely, Arthur,” says Douglas.

“Wow, thanks, Douglas!” Arthur bounces away, grinning.

“ _Douglas_!” Martin hisses, as soon as he’s gone. “Why are you _encouraging_ him?”

“Oh, relax, Martin. I’m sure it’s going to be fine.”

Martin is absolutely sure it’s _not_ going to be fine, but it’s obvious that there’s no point in arguing with Douglas about it at the moment. “I went to Agra with Anthony and we bought … acres of angular apples,” he says instead.

“Not bad, not bad,” says Douglas. “I went to Boston with Brenda and we bought bushels of bilious baboons.”

* * *

“It’s going to be a _disaster_ ,” Martin complains, between bites of shepherd’s pie. “Carolyn will be livid, and Arthur will be devastated, and, and Herc and Douglas are _encouraging_ him.”

John regards him thoughtfully, chewing.

“I don’t know Carolyn,” he says at last, “but … d’you think she might, you know, pretend not to be livid, to spare Arthur’s feelings? I mean … _Arthur_.”

Martin thinks about this. “I suppose it’s _possible_ ,” he concedes. “But I did tell you about the Helsinki trip, yeah?”

“You did,” John says, and grins. “The words _mainly chocolate thing_ will always remind me of our first date.”

“Very funny.” Martin prods John’s forearm gently with his fork. “Seriously, though – I’m not sure even Arthur can get away with a second surprise … thing. Although of course he does have a point – Horrible Auntie Ruth was definitelythe wrong sort of surprise.”

Martin sighs and collects another forkful of shepherd’s pie.

“Anyway, Arthur’s convinced it’ll all be fine because Herc’s helping – Herc’s Carolyn’s, you know, _not-a-boyfriend_ , you remember? – but I think that’s just going to make it worse. She’ll think it’s some big romantic gesture, and then the knives will really come out.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Knives?”

“Mmmm.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“You have absolutely no idea.”

“Er, are you … are you looking for a plus-one?”

Martin nearly drops his fork. “You’re _volunteering_ to participate in this train-wreck with me? Seriously?”

“Well.” John shrugs. “The things we do for love, eh?”

Martin’s ears are burning by the time John adds, with a positively Douglas-ish glint in his eye, “Anyway, could be fun.”

* * *

Martin’s fond hope that Carolyn will discover what Arthur’s up to and put a stop to it goes unfulfilled. Which is a bit surprising, given that it’s Arthur. Martin suspects Herc’s influence – or, possibly, that Arthur doesn’t know anything because Herc isn’t telling him. Well: if Herc rather than Arthur ends up bearing the brunt of Carolyn’s reaction to another birthday surprise, that’s just fine with Martin. Herc, after all, is a grown-up, and can presumably take it.

Nevertheless, he’s fidgety with nerves when he and John and Douglas pile out of Douglas’s car (parked two streets away, out of sight) just a few minutes past the appointed time.

“Relax, love,” John says, squeezing his hand.

“Easy for you to say,” Martin mutters. Though John – _Doctor John Watson_ – is holding his hand in front of the whole world (or, at any rate, Douglas), and that does make him stand a little taller.

Douglas, of course, is cool as a … very cool thing. “Really, Martin,” he says, pushing the bell, “it’s going to be fine.” And, once they’re in the door and Arthur has herded them into the lounge, “Why don’t you go and sort us all out some drinks?”

It’s not until he’s in the kitchen pouring out Strongbow for John and sparkling apple juice for Douglas and himself that Martin realizes he’s left his still fairly new boyfriend alone with Douglas Richardson.

Still, though, John can take care of himself. Can’t he?

As he’s carefully arranging the three glasses for two-handed carrying, Arthur erupts into the kitchen and startles him into nearly dropping them all.

“Oh, there you are, Skip!” he exclaims. “Let me help you with those!”

“Thanks, Arthur,” Martin says. “It’s fine, though. Everything going okay?”

“Yeah, Herc’ll be back with Mum in” (he checks his watch) “about twenty minutes. You lot were the last to arrive, so— Do you like the balloons, Skip?”

“Er …” Martin’s been trying not to think about them, actually, because they’re very large, very numerous and very, very colourful – not, in any universe he can imagine, Carolyn’s sort of thing at all. “They’re very ... cheerful.”

“I know! The woman in the shop thought we should have a colour scheme, but I couldn’t pick just one colour, so I thought, why not get some of each? Skip, is it true that if you suck the helium out of a helium balloon, it makes your voice go all funny?”

It’s a perfect opportunity, and Martin snatches at it. “I’m not sure,” he lies, “but I’m sure John would know. Why don’t we go and ask him?”

And not a moment too soon, because when located, Douglas is looming over John, who’s wearing his _I’m smiling because I’m so pissed off_ face and saying calmly, “… but I _think_ that’s none of your business.”

Martin nudges Arthur, who for once in his life takes the hint and says, “John! Hi! I was wondering, is it true what they say about helium balloons …?”

Martin hands John his cider and Douglas his sparkling apple juice, then – while Arthur is monopolizing John – grabs his startled first officer by the very solid elbow and hauls him several feet away.

“Goodness, Martin, you certainly are stronger than you look,” says Douglas mildly. He raises his glass. “Cheers.”

“Douglas, _stop it_ ,” Martin hisses, deploying his very best glare.

Douglas raises his eyebrows; Martin grits his teeth.

“I mean it. This, this _what are your intentions towards my daughter_ routine, this is at least the third time you’ve done it, a-a-and it’s got to stop.”

“You wound me, Martin.” And Douglas actually does look sort of hurt, but Martin is resolute.

“I’m sorry, Douglas,” he says. “I realise your intentions are, are honourable and you mean well and I do appreciate your looking out for me, no, I actually do, but I’m a responsible adult and I _know what I’m doing_.”

“Do you, though?”

“ _Yes_. I absolutely, definitely do.”

“Because you wouldn’t be the first person to mistake really good sex for True Love,” says Douglas, as calmly as though they weren’t standing in the middle of Carolyn’s hilariously over-ballooned sitting-room, surrounded by people they don’t know. “Take it from me, it—”

Martin has managed, just, not to choke on his drink; his face is hot, and he knows he must be blushing scarlet. “Two things, Douglas,” he says, biting out the words. “One, I am _not_ talking to you about my sex life, and _especially_ not at Carolyn’s birthday party with Arthur standing three feet away. And, two, you’ve got it completely the wrong way round. If you must know.”

Douglas blinks at him, and sips his apple juice in a visible effort to cover his lack of anything to say.

“Now,” says Martin, drawing himself up tall, or as tall as it’s possible for him to get. “I’m going to go rescue my boyfriend from Arthur. Coming, Douglas?”

And Douglas, for a wonder, follows him without a word.

* * *

Carolyn and Herc arrive exactly on schedule. Carolyn’s astonishment is extremely realistic – Martin is fairly sure that only he and Douglas can see through it, though it’s hard to know about Herc – and Arthur is almost hysterically pleased.

John slips an arm round Martin’s waist and murmurs into Martin’s ear, “There, didn’t I say she’d be nice about it for Arthur’s sake?”

At nearly the same moment, Douglas says smugly, “You see, Martin? I told you it was going to be fine.”

“Yes, yes, all right,” says Martin.

There’s a cake, it turns out – a real cake this time, with real candles, though it appears Herc’s good judgement has prevailed over Arthur’s enthusiasm, as said candles have been kept to a restrained half-dozen.

Carolyn blows them out, there’s a general cheer, and for just a second, as she looks up at Herc and then at Arthur, Martin thinks he sees something soft and almost … _soppy_ in her expression.

Only for a second, of course.

* * *

Arthur tows Martin all over the house introducing him to people – friends of his, friends of Carolyn’s, even, to Martin’s surprise, one or two friends of Herc’s. It’s awkward at first (not least because Arthur seems to be having trouble remembering Martin’s name, and keeps introducing him as “Skip”), but people seem not to be laughing at him, and every so often he catches John’s eye across the room and John smiles warmly just for him.

“Skip, this is my friend Tiffy,” says Arthur, halting Martin in front of a tall young woman with long honey-coloured hair held back with a black Alice band. “Tiffy, this is Skip! I mean, Martin. Your know – our captain, at MJN.”

“Oh!” says Tiffy, her china-blue eyes going comically wide. “You’re the one who landed the plane on one engine! Arthur’s always talking about you!”

“Er, yes,” says Martin. “Yes, that was me. Lovely to meet you, Tiffy.”

After about the fifteenth introduction, he starts to notice something odd: he’s talking to a lot of women, many of them very good-looking and some of them quite a bit taller than himself, and it’s _easy_.

He catches John’s eye again, and blushes, and grins.

But three people later, looking round the room for John, Martin discovers he’s been backed into a corner of the lounge by Carolyn and Herc.

_Oh, for goodness’ sake, not them too._

“Arthur,” Martin says, “D’you think you could get me another glass of this sparkly apple stuff?”

There’s no earthly reason why he can’t just get himself another drink, but he’s betting that won’t occur to Arthur, and, sure enough, Arthur smiles and says, “Sure thing, Skip!” and beetles off to the kitchen.

Leaving Martin free to mount a rescue operation.

He moves across the big, open room in what he hopes is a casual and non-attention-drawing manner, smiling vaguely at people Arthur’s already introduced him to, whose names he mostly can’t remember.

“The thing about Martin,” Carolyn is saying, when Martin comes up behind her, “is that he’s—”

“Standing right behind you, I’m afraid,” Martin says. He’s rather proud of that – it seems like the kind of thing Douglas might say.

Carolyn’s head turns at whiplash-inducing speed.

“Martin,” she says, goggling a little; there’s a nearly empty glass of champagne in her hand.

“I see you’ve met John,” says Martin. “Hello, Herc. Smashing party.”

_Smashing_ also seems like the sort of thing Douglas would say – it’s certainly not something Martin normally says.

He circles round Carolyn to stand next to John, so close that their shoulders touch; lets his fingers touch John’s, and fights back a grin when John responds by casually sliding an arm round his waist.

“As I’m sure Carolyn was just saying,” he continues, trying to channel Douglas’s bland smile to go with Douglas’s vocabulary, “the thing about Martin is that he’s thirty-five years old and _he can date whoever he wants to_.”

Carolyn is genuinely goggling now.

“Carolyn, I think Martin’s got everything under control here,” says Herc. He winks – _actually winks_ – at Martin and John. “Let’s go and get another glass of champagne, shall we? I think it’s actually rather good.”

Martin watches, keeping his face carefully neutral, until Herc and Carolyn disappear into the kitchen. Then he’s startled into an undignified yelp by the warm brush of John’s lips against his ear.

“Self-confidence is an incredibly sexy look on you, Captain Crieff,” John murmurs. “In case you were wondering.”

Martin’s ears are burning, and he knows his face is probably bright red, and he’s at a party at his boss’s house surrounded by total strangers. He almost can’t believe his own daring when he turns his head to put his own lips against John’s ear and breathes, “There’s lots more where that came from, Doctor Watson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End-of-St-Petersburg conversation at the beginning of the chapter is of course by John Finnemore.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> confrontation; introspection; consolation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is quite a short chapter, and I'm afraid it may be the last I'm able to post for a while: I'm getting revision notes for my next book tomorrow, and the word "extensive" has been used. Apologies if this goes dormant for a while, but it will only be for a while -- cross my heart and hope to die, terrapins tickle me if I lie!
> 
> Anyway, THANK YOU to everyone who's been reading and commenting and hitting that Kudos button -- it means an enormous amount to me that my little demisexual love story (a.k.a. In Which the Author Writes About Her Own Sexual Identity) is getting so much love :)

By the beginning of April, Martin is spending more nights at John’s than in his own flat, and Janelle has added John’s contact information to the work schedule on the Parkside Terrace fridge. The students all like John, who generally behaves like a sort of benevolent, slightly eccentric uncle and helps Emily with her pathology revision while Martin’s helping Janelle and Dave with their maths.

There was, admittedly, an awkward few minutes the night Jamie (who spends _far_ too much time on the Internet) came home from the pub three sheets to the wind, saw John sitting on the sofa watching _Die Another Day_ with Martin and Emily and Dave, and said, “Whoa! You’re that guy who wrote the blog about Sherlock Holmes!”

Sitting close beside John, Martin felt him tense, but his voice when he spoke was calm and even: “I was, yeah. Now I’m the guy who’s dating your housemate.”

Jamie, bless him, frowned blearily and said, “Which one?”

And then Dave burst out laughing, and Emily said, “Seriously, Jamie?” and Martin and John looked at each other and then, by unspoken agreement, leaned in for a kiss, and Jamie was very quiet for a few seconds and then made a sloppy gesture of triumph and whooped, “Aw’right, Martin!”, and since then it’s all been fine.

John seems to quite like hanging about the student house with Martin, but they both prefer spending the night at his flat, where it’s actually possible to have some privacy and they don’t have to queue for the shower. Every so often, John says something that suggests he might be envisioning a future in which Martin and he actually share a flat, but Martin thinks he’s probably misinterpreting and has never quite worked out how to ask.

* * *

Martin is jetlagged, and he’s been on the way to, in, or on the way home from Australia for a week. As a result of the first thing, he’s wide awake at half two in the morning; and as a result of the second thing, instead of doing something sensible with the time, like taking the week’s accumulated washing to the all-night launderette or finishing his library book before the fines really start to pile up, he’s lying in bed, watching John sleep in the faint ambient light of the streetlamps outside.

He can admit that this is maybe a bit creepy, but he can’t help it. John looks so different when he’s asleep – with all the lines on his face smoothed out, he could be ten years younger – and it’s not like Martin does this sort of thing all the time, is it?

They fell asleep last night without putting on pyjamas, and John’s curled on his right side, facing Martin, which gives Martin an unusually good view of his scarred left shoulder. Martin wonders whether he’ll ever hear the full version of that story, or even anything beyond John’s terse (though not hostile) _I was out in the field when I shouldn’t have been, and I got hit_.

If he were Sherlock, Martin reflects, he’d have worked it all out already. He’s read all the way through John’s old blog now, and the common thread running through every entry is Sherlock’s sheer disconcerting insight into people. _And yet John loved you all that time, and you never saw it_ , he thinks. _Unless of course you just didn’t care._

Martin, on the other hand, does care, and is getting quite good at reading John.

Of course, he can’t look at John’s scars and deduce the calibre of the bullet that made them or the angle of entry or the position of his body at the time or any of that. He can’t read John’s history in the pattern of his tan lines or the cut of his clothes, and he knows very well that there are whole parts of John he’s never got near: John will talk (briefly, grudgingly) about his sister, but never mentions his parents; John has friends from the Army and from his medical training that Martin has never met.

But he’s learned to read John’s face and his body language, learned to recognize _Exhausting day_ and _Someone died on my shift – Nightmares incoming_ and _Please take me to bed – Harry drunk-dialled me again_ and _I’m smiling because I’m very very angry and would really like to punch someone._ Martin loves it when John says _I love you_ , but he doesn’t really need to hear the words: it’s in John’s voice, in the crinkling of his eyes, in the real, honest, beaming smile so often directed at Martin; it’s in the things he tells Martin that he wouldn’t tell anyone else; it’s in his gentle hands and his muffled giggles and the way he listens to Martin enthusing about the avionics in the new Bombardier CSeries jets.

And having seen all of that, Martin can also see very clearly, in those old blog entries, how John felt about Sherlock – more clearly, perhaps, than John can. And certainly more clearly than Sherlock ever seems to have done.

_You may have been a genius, Sherlock Holmes, but you were also really, really stupid._

That thought leads Martin to a much less welcome one. Does John wish he were with Sherlock instead?

It’s not the first time he’s wondered – surely anyone would, in his place. Given a choice between tall, gorgeous, posh genius and pipsqueak hobby pilot …

John snuffles quietly, mashing his face further into his pillow, and Martin chuckles. John’s left hand reaches vaguely towards Martin’s side of the bed. If he can’t sleep anyway, he might as well get a cuddle out of it, Martin decides, and shifts closer to tuck himself in under John’s arm.

* * *

Eventually he does fall asleep, and then his subconscious mind pulls out all his most unpleasant thoughts to taunt him with. In his dreams, he takes up a borrowed two-seater, stalls the engine and crashes the plane. He’s cooking a meal in Parkside Terrace and inadvertently burns the house down. He falls asleep at the wheel of the van and smashes it up – attempts low-altitude manoeuvres in G-ERTI and nearly kills everyone on board – bets Gordon Shappey all of MJN and everything he owns on the outcome of a poker game (why _poker_ of all things?) and loses. It’s not till his sleeping brain presents him with John, looking disappointed and sad as he says, _Sherlock would never have done that_ , that Martin finally wakes up – to find that his eyes are wet and John is shaking his shoulder.

“Do you wish I was him?”

The words are out before he’s even properly awake, certainly before he’s had time to think them through, and he claps a hand over his mouth, horrified at what’s just come out of it.

“What?” says John. His voice is blurry, though he’s sitting up in bed, his face tense and alert.

“Sherlock,” says Martin, sitting up too. He can’t help it, somehow, even though he _knows_ he should just shut up. “Don’t you ever wish—”

“Jesus Christ, Martin.” John closes his eyes, rubs one hand over his face. “What time is it?”

_That’s not ‘no_ , _’_ Martin’s brain points out unhelpfully.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, I’ll just—”

John’s eyes fly open, wide and dark in the dim light, and he reaches for Martin, grabs his elbow as though to stop him trying to get away; it’s only then that Martin realizes he’s halfway out of bed, one foot on the floor.

“Bad dream?” John asks.

Martin nods.

“Any chance we could have this conversation after the sun comes up?”

Martin shrugs unhappily. “I don’t think I’m getting back to sleep tonight,” he says. “This morning. Whatever.”

He twists round to check the alarm clock, whose glowing red digits inform him that it’s just gone five.

John yawns enormously and stretches his arms over his head. “Okay,” he says, in a tone that might be resigned or might be just exhausted – Martin can’t tell. “C’mon, then. I’ll make coffee.”

He gets out of bed, retrieves his dressing-gown from the door of the wardrobe, shrugs it on and, tying the belt round his waist, wanders out of the bedroom.

No pants, Martin notes; that’s probably a good thing, isn’t it? If you were going to tell your boyfriend something really terrible, you’d probably want to have your bits covered up when you did it. Wouldn’t you?

He realizes he’s been sitting half on and half off the bed, thinking about this, for probably much too long, and hastily grabs his own ratty dressing-gown and follows John out to the kitchen.

John is leaning against the edge of the worktop, arms folded and head down, waiting for the kettle to boil. Screwing up his eyes against the too-bright fluorescent light, Martin takes a tentative step towards him, then another, until he’s close enough to touch; he doesn’t quite dare, though.

“I _am_ sorry,” he repeats, miserably. “It was a really bad dream.”

And John looks up, finally, and says, “I know what you mean.”

* * *

They sit at the table with their mugs of coffee (John’s has the insignia of the Royal Army Medical Corps on it; Martin’s, a Christmas gift from Arthur, features a painting of a Hawker Hurricane). John stares down into his mug; Martin stares at the sleep-rumpled top of John’s head.

Finally John looks up again and says – slowly, with painful determination – “I wish he hadn’t died, of course I do. I wish I’d been honest about how I felt about him. I … I don’t know whether I wish he’d felt the same. It might’ve been great, you know? Or it might’ve been an epic disaster.”

Martin sits very still.

John swallows – shifts his gaze over Martin’s shoulder – shifts it back, with visible effort, to Martin’s face. “I _don’t_ wish you were him, Martin,” he says. “Not for a second. You’re _you_ and you’re lovely and I love you.”

His eyes hold Martin’s; his left hand, the palm warm from its proximity to the coffee-mug, cups Martin’s cheek, his thumb stroking across the thin skin under Martin’s eye.

“Okay?” he says, and it’s half a plea and half a promise.

Martin blinks. Considers the evidence: John thinks he’s lovely – not brilliant, not fantastic, not amazing, but lovely. Decides he doesn’t care; if he can have this, have John, it doesn’t matter if he’s the runner-up to Sherlock.

Martin is _here_ , after all. And Sherlock is gone, and never coming back.

“Okay,” he says. And after a moment, softer, “I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s Martin’s Hurricane mug: <http://www.flightstore.co.uk/aviation-gifts-c221/aircraft-mugs-c239/hawker-hurricane-word-aircraft-mug-p5038>. Martin would undoubtedly be able to tell you what model of Hurricane is depicted on it but I, alas, can’t – I feel like it could be a Mk I but I’m not prepared to commit to that.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hypocritical question; a visit to Wokingham; explanations and recriminations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very, very late and quite short, and I'm sorry.

“It’s just, um, I’ve got a sort of hypocritical question,” says Arthur, on the satcom.

Martin and Douglas look at each other. _What d’you reckon he’s done now?_

Three hours and twenty minutes later, Martin is glaring at Caitlin across their mother’s hospital bed.

“Everything all right, Wendy?” Mum’s doctor is tall and slightly stoop-shouldered, with untidy grey hair and thick specs and a kindly smile.

“Oh, yes, thank you, Dr White,” says Mum. “I’m sorry, the children were just squabbling.”

“We weren’t squabbling!” says Caitlin indignantly.

“We’re not _children_ ,” Martin adds, and winces at the, frankly, childish sound of his own voice. If only John were here! _Well, he’s not. But you are._

He pulls himself together enough to try to insist on Simon’s pulling his weight in the Looking-After-Mum endurance event, but of course Mum insists that Simon’s job is much too important (“He works for the government!” “Mum, he works for the _council_.” “Well, exactly!”) and whatever success Martin might have had in being assertive with Caitlin crumbles in the face of, well, Mum’s face.

* * *

If it weren’t for John’s salary (and John’s insistence that he _get some sleep once in a bloody while, Martin, for God’s sake_ ), the next several weeks would be the death of Martin, who, even so, is stretched painfully thin between trips, and attempting to stop Mum doing things for him whilst he’s meant to be looking after her, and the occasional van job which just can’t be cancelled. Simon, to Martin’s complete unsurprise, is no use at all: Mum’s been home for five whole days before he can even be bothered to come round, and then he’s worse than unhelpful, completely ignoring every boundary Martin tries to set ( _Imagine my surprise_ , drawls the Douglas in Martin’s head) and swanning about like Number One Son as though Martin and Caitlin hadn’t been here every day, in shifts, on top of their _actual jobs_ , and _then_ , as if all that weren’t enough, suggesting that _Nathan bloody Smiley_ ought to be having a look at Mum.

“He’s a _podiatrist_ ,” says Martin. “He won’t know anything about angina.”

“Martin, perhaps we should let Simon do what he thinks best,” says Mum, with an indulgent smile at Simon, and Martin suddenly just _can’t_ any longer.

“If anyone’s going to bring their own doctor round, it should be me,” he says, before he can stop himself.

“Oh, you’ve got a doctor as well, have you?” Simon looks amused. “Who’s that, then?”

“My boyfriend, as it happens,” says Martin, irritated beyond his native caution – then immediately wishes he’d said something more grown-up, like _my partner_. “And he’s a _proper_ doctor, not a pod—”

“ _You’ve_ got a boyfriend?”

Martin’s not sure whether to be more offended at the disbelieving tone or relieved that Simon didn’t say ‘You’ve got a _boy_ friend?’ Before he can formulate a reply, Mum’s chiming in with obvious delight: “Martin, sweetheart! That’s wonderful! But why haven’t you brought him round to meet the family, love?”

_Oh, I don’t know – because you lot all treat me like a child? Because I don’t much fancy being humiliated in front of the only person who’s ever been willing to put up with me for more than a couple of months?_

“Well, you know how it is, Mum—”

“Well, you’ll bring him with you next time, won’t you.” Mum smiles sunnily up at him, then returns her attention to the jigsaw puzzles. “Arthur, look, is that part of your ear?”

“Oh! Thanks, Wendy!” Arthur snaps the piece into place. “You’ll like John, Wendy, he’s brilliant. He’s a captain, too! Like Skip! I mean, he used to be. Only, not of an aeroplane. So, actually—”

“In the Royal Army Medical Corps,” Martin supplies, before Arthur can get any more tangled up. He doesn’t try to keep the vicarious pride from his voice, because Arthur’s right, John _is_ brilliant, and Martin bloody well _is_ proud of him, _so there_. “In Afghanistan.”

Simon’s low whistle of surprise is music to Martin’s ears.

* * *

As it happens, John’s got the whole weekend off, and when Martin hesitantly suggests a drive to Wokingham to visit Mum, he smiles and says, “Yeah, all right.”

“Really?” Martin says. “You don’t mind?”

“Well, I won’t lie, I am a bit nervous,” John says. “Meeting the family and all. Especially the infamous Simon and his terrifying moustache.”

Martin frowns. Is John teasing him? Yes, he eventually decides, based on the tiny crinkles around John’s eyes.

And because it’s John, and John always teases him kindly—affectionately—he sort of doesn’t even mind.

* * *

Mum is enormously pleased with John, and John, although he directs one or two _very_ eloquent sidewise glances at Martin, answers her questions about his current job, his time in Afghanistan (heavily sanitized for maternal ears), and how he and Martin met with correspondingly enormous patience. Only when she says brightly, “Your mum and dad must be ever so proud!” does his composure crack a little, and before Martin can step in (and probably make things worse) he’s excused himself to the loo and disappeared.

“ _Mum_ ,” Martin hisses, but he gets no further, because Mum is falling all over herself to tell him, in what she fondly imagines is a discreet whisper, how lovely his boyfriend is, and this entirely new experience robs Martin of the power of speech for several minutes.

His mother doesn’t appear to notice.

* * *

“I’m sorry about Mum,” Martin says, once they’re back on the motorway.

“Hmm?” says John. “Why?”

“Well.” Martin tries and fails to think of a way to say _She said something that hurt you, and I’m sorry, and I wish you’d tell me why._ “I love her, and she means well, but that thing I do where I say whatever the most wrong thing for the situation is? I sometimes think I learnt it from her.”

He feels rather than sees John turn toward him, feels John’s gaze on his face.

“Oh,” says John, finally. “You noticed that, did you?”

“I may not be Sherlock Holmes, but I’m not _blind_ ,” says Martin; and then, clutching desperately at the van’s steering-wheel, “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. I’m _so_ sorry. That was—”

“The most wrong thing for the situation? Yeah, it was,” John says. But—miraculously—there’s a rueful little chuckle in his voice. “Look, my parents are … it’s a bit of a sore place, yeah? Nothing too sinister, they didn’t starve me or beat me half to death or, or whatever you’re thinking, love, OK? Just … look, they’ve been dead and buried a long time, and I’d just as soon leave them there.”

Martin swallows back all the questions he wants to ask, and, while he isn’t asking them, feels John gradually relax in the passenger seat.

They drive in silence for a while, until Martin sees a lemon-coloured Ford Cortina approaching on the far side of the central reservation, and absently says, “Yellow car.”

John is quiet for another moment. Then he starts to laugh, and doesn’t stop for five more miles.

And then he says, in a low, this-is-serious voice with absolutely no laughter in it at all, “When did you … how old were you, when you realized you were … not like everyone else?”

Martin thinks through the circumstances leading up to this question just quickly enough to avoid saying, _How do you mean?_ “I think,” he says, and stalls, considering. “I reckon I was about fifteen. When everyone was constantly talking about this girl’s, you know, breasts, and that one’s bum, and which of the girls was the most fit, and all the things they got up to at the weekend, and … I mean I think even then I sort of knew they were talking bollocks, but they were all … _interested_ , and I just … wasn’t. And, and it wasn’t that I was into blokes rather than birds, you know, it was just. Not.”

He risks a glance at John, who’s wearing his intent listening expression.

“What,” he says, when John doesn’t say anything for several seconds. “What, er, what about you?”

John huffs a small sort-of-laugh, and, just as Martin’s concluded he’s not going to answer, says, “Five.”

Martin blinks in astonishment.

“I thought everyone was like me,” John continues. “And then one day mum was giving Harry and me our tea and I said, _Mummy, I can’t decide who I want to marry when I grow up_ , and she smiled and said that was fine, I had lots of time to decide.” Martin hears him swallow. “And then I said, _I like Claire, but I like Mark, too. How am I meant to decide, Mummy?_ And then she,” he swallows again. “Well, she explained to me what I’d got wrong.”

“John, I’m—”

“So after that I went into deep denial for fifteen years or so. I mean, the eighties, yeah? I passed the sodding eleven-plus, mostly because my dad obviously thought I couldn’t do it and shouldn’t try, and I got into the King Edward Grammar, and I played football and rugby and I went to the cinema with girls and I swotted my arse off because I knew by then I wanted to do a medical course, and none of it helped, really, because I liked the girls a lot, but every so often I’d still see a bloke who made my mouth go dry.”

Martin’s spotted a motorway services, and he turns on the indicator.

“Medical training was good, and the Army was good, nothing like life-or-death situations to clarify your priorities, yeah?”

Martin carefully merges into the traffic exiting the motorway.

“And Army culture is pretty fucking macho sometimes,” says John, “but on the other hand it … erodes people’s boundaries, so. And then, well—”

Martin turns into the car park and finally stops the van in the lee of a Costa Coffee.

He twists in his seat to face John, who has stopped talking and is frowning in forehead-crumpled bafflement. “All right, love?” John says.

“I love you,” says Martin, and then stalls.

John studies him for what feels like a long time. “Okay,” he says at last. “I—”

“No,” says Martin, hastily; “I wasn’t fishing. I mean—you’re a-a-amazing, and if your parents didn’t realize that, that’s not _your_ fault, a-and you shouldn’t let it keep hurting you.”

John smiles at him, but the smile doesn’t have its usual effect on Martin, because this time it’s just a thin veneer over something dark and sharp and lonely. “You mean, the way you don’t let it hurt you that your dad died just before you finally got your first flying job?” he says. “The way it doesn’t hurt when your brother and sister treat you like a kid?”

Martin stares, his right hand tight on the wheel, his heart pounding and his face flushed hot with betrayal.

There’s a brief, taut, shattering silence.

Then Martin says, “ _John_ ”—his voice shocked, bewildered—and, just like that, John’s face crumples up in distress and he reaches for Martin, _Jesus, Martin, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry_ , and Martin clutches fistfuls of John’s jacket and tries to catch his breath.

“Not so amazing,” John says ruefully, some unknown while later. “I’m sorry, love. Are you okay?”

Martin, dragging his shirtsleeve across his nose like the tearful five-year-old he once was, nearly says yes, of course he is. Nearly, that is, lies. Instead he says, “My mum thinks you’re fantastic.”

“Oh?” says John.

“Yes,” says Martin firmly. “That’s why she said … what she said, you know. Because if you were _her_ son, no one would ever hear the end of it.”

“Oh,” says John, in quite a different tone. “Oh. That’s … thank you for telling me.” He clears his throat, straightens his back, and says briskly, “So—as we’re here, d’you fancy a coffee, Captain Crieff?”

He smiles again, and this time Martin feels it down to his toes.

“Don’t mind if I do, Doctor Watson,” he says, and unbuckles his seatbelt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any dialogue you recognize is borrowed from the great and powerful John Finnemore.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an unexpected arrival; Thai green curry; the morning after the night before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for description of child abuse seen in the course of John’s job, and for John behaving badly.

And then, one damp October night – just when Martin’s managed to let himself believe that things are good – it all goes pear-shaped.

* * *

There are lights on in their flat when Martin pulls up outside, which is strange because John is meant to be still at work. Maybe his shift was changed at the last minute? But normally when that happens he texts Martin to let him know, just as Martin texts John about flight delays and last-minute van jobs.

Yawning, Martin retrieves his flight bag from the passenger seat, locks up the van, and heads indoors, letting himself into the building with the heavy Abloy key. A second, smaller key opens the door to the flat, where, bizarrely, _every possible light_ seems to have been switched on.

“John?” Martin calls. “Why’ve you got so many lights—”

There’s a flurry of movement from the sitting-room, and … _someone_ … erupts into the tiny entry – a tall dark figure in a long dark coat, looming over Martin, who can’t quite suppress an undignified squeak but stands his ground nonetheless, hefting his flight bag for use as a weapon since he’s got nothing else to hand.

“Who are you?” the stranger demands. He’s got a deep voice and a posh accent, and he sounds unreasonably outraged for someone who’s almost certainly guilty of breaking and entering. “Why have you got keys to John’s flat?”

“Because I live here,” says Martin. He puts his flight bag down, since (to his secret relief) it doesn’t appear there’s going to be a fight after all. “I’m John’s p-partner. Wh-who-who the hell are _you_?”

“John’s _what_?” The stranger takes a step back, then, giving Martin a better look at his face. His, _Oh, shit_ , very familiar face, with its pale, wide-set eyes, its ridiculous cheekbones, its full lips.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” says Martin.

* * *

“You’re dead,” Martin says. He’s sitting in John’s armchair. He loosens his uniform tie, unbuttons his collar; the room doesn’t seem to have enough air in it.

Sherlock Holmes rolls his eyes. “Obviously not,” he says.

On some strange sort of autopilot, Martin reaches for his phone.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock demands.

“Ringing John,” says Martin, thumbing the phone awake.

“Why?”

Martin’s hand falls to his lap, phone and all, and he gapes at Sherlock. “ _Why?_ ” he echoes, incredulous. “The dead best friend he’s spent the past two and a half years mourning suddenly turns up alive and breaks into our flat, and you’re asking _why I’m ringing him_?”

“You’re not going to tell him any of that over the phone,” Sherlock points out. “And he won’t leave before the end of his shift for anything less than a life-or-death emergency, because he might already be dealing with a life-or-death emergency. So I ask again, why would you phone him?”

Put that way, phoning John does seem like an idiotic idea. Martin puts his phone back in his pocket.

“Have you got any coffee?” says Sherlock.

Martin glowers at him. “I’m not making you coffee,” he says.

“Why not?” says Sherlock. He looks genuinely baffled.

“ _Why not_?” Martin is starting to remember John’s less laudatory (though still somehow affectionate) descriptions of his late friend: _annoying dickhead_ figured prominently, he recalls, and _spoilt man-child_ , and _insufferable twat_. “Let’s see: you made John watch you jump off a building, you let him think you were dead for nearly three years, you let him blame himself for—”

“ _I did it to protect him!_ ” Sherlock roars, surging to his feet. He paces back and forth across the sitting-room, his movements rapid and jerky – he looks the way Martin sometimes feels, when he’s had _just too much_ of something or someone.

“ _Protect_ him? Protect him from what? What could be worse than—”

Sherlock whirls round, coattails swirling, and glares at Martin. “Will you stop repeating everything I say!” He flings up his hands, resumes his pacing. “You really are _astonishingly_ stupid. I can’t imagine why John would even _talk_ to you, let alone—”

Martin stands up. Swallows hard. Folds his arms across his chest; takes courage from the four stripes on his jacket sleeves.

“Sit down,” he says. His voice is quiet and steady.

Sherlock ignores him.

Martin calls to mind the few glimpses he’s had of Captain Watson. “I said,” he says, more firmly and a bit less quietly, “ _sit. down_.”

Sherlock spins to face him, wide-eyed, and drops onto the sofa with a muffled thump.

Martin takes one step, two, till he’s standing directly in front of Sherlock, and looks down at him.

“I’m not going to punch you,” he says, “even though you _absolutely deserve it_ , because you’re John’s friend. I’m also not going to make you coffee, and I’m not going to pretend I like you, because at the moment I really, _really_ don’t, and I’m not going to sit here admiring your _massive intellect_ while you tell me how stupid I am.”

Sherlock blinks up at him in astonished silence, and Martin takes a moment to savour the vicious satisfaction of having shut him up, however briefly.

“He still has nightmare, you know,” he continues, in a conversational tone. “Only he doesn’t dream about being shot at in Afghanistan anymore – he dreams about you jumping off that bloody building.

“Now.” Martin sits down again, slowly and deliberately, and chooses his words. “Why don’t you tell me what exactly you’re doing here.”

* * *

By the time Martin’s phone chirrups to remind him to go and collect John from work, he’s still very angry but is feeling considerably less self-righteous. It’s clear that Sherlock had no idea how long and how deeply John would grieve for him, and that it truly never entered his mind to suppose that John would feel responsible for his death. If he’s been truthful about the circumstances of his “death” – and what little Martin knows of this Moriarty character suggests he probably has done – then John really was in mortal danger, and Sherlock’s options for protecting him really were very few.

Still, though: “You could have told him sooner,” he said, when Sherlock explained that he’d needed John’s reactions to be genuine, for John’s own safety. “It’s been _three years_ , or near enough. A phone call, a postcard, a text – _something._ And you made him _watch_.”

And Sherlock shrank into himself a little at that. “That wasn’t meant to happen,” he said, in a small voice. “I thought the diversion back to Baker Street would keep him away longer, so that if … if that contingency did prove necessary, he wouldn’t be there to see it. But of course John was always just a little bit cleverer than I expected him to be. A bit more than I expected, a bit less than I hoped…”

But he hasn’t explained why he didn’t make contact sooner or, really, why he’s here now – except to say, “Because it’s over.”

Which, Martin’s beginning to think, actually means _Because I missed him, too._

And he can hardly fault Sherlock for doing whatever he believed he had to do to keep John safe, because, well, wouldn’t Martin make exactly the same call?

So when his phone alarm sounds, and Martin levers himself to his feet, he stands there for a minute, looking down at the man on John’s sofa, and, entirely against his will, feels a stirring of sympathy.

In his bespoke suit and unspeakably pricey coat, Sherlock does look a little like those old newspaper photos of the great consulting detective; but also, and sort of mainly, he looks like a man who’s been through the wars and could do with a hot meal, a good long sleep and a hug. (Not that Martin’s going to go _there_ , that’s for bloody certain.)

“Look,” Martin says. “I’ve got to go and collect John from work, his shift’s ending in fifteen minutes. Are you planning to be here when we get back?”

“I …” Sherlock pauses, his sharp eyes flicking over Martin’s face, reading … what?

“There’s leftover chicken green curry in the fridge,” says Martin, “and you can make yourself a cup of tea. I mean obviously it’s up to John whether you can stay here tonight or not, everything’s up to John, you’re his friend and this is his flat really, but …”

Sherlock’s throat works, but he replies only with a jerky nod.

But as Martin’s opening the door of the flat, Sherlock speaks, his voice low and croaky: “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I love John,” says Martin steadily, “I am _in love with_ John, and I want him to be happy, and he needs to know that you’re not really dead. But you need to know something, too,” he adds, taking a step back towards the sitting-room to make sure Sherlock can hear what he’s saying. “You’re not to hurt him like that again. I _won’t let you_. If he doesn’t want you here, I’m not going to argue with him.”

“I understand,” says Sherlock.

“Good,” says Martin, and opens the door.

* * *

He drives to the hospital in a sort of daze. John’s waiting in their usual meeting place, and he hauls himself up into the van’s passenger seat with his eyes already half closed.

“Seatbelt,” says Martin numbly.

John rouses himself enough to buckle in, but then slumps back again with a long sigh.

“Rough shift?” Martin ventures, keeping his eyes on the road.

“People are bastards,” says John. “Unbelievable fucking bastards.”

Martin drives on in silence: John will talk about it if he wants to, and if he doesn’t, no power on earth will drag it out of him.

And finally, just before they reach the last turning, John says, “This woman – young woman, practically a girl – brought in her four-month-old baby. She’d come home from work, her first half-shift back since he was born, and went to feed him, and not only was he not awake and hungry after four hours, she couldn’t wake him.” John presses the heels of his hands into his eyes; swallows hard; stares bleakly through the van’s rain-spattered windscreen. “His dad had been minding him while she was at work. And he wouldn’t stop crying. So he picked him up out of his cot and _shook him_ until he shut up.” John’s voice is tense and trembling with fury. “And I rang the police, and I stopped him when he tried to do a runner, and I expect he’ll go to prison for a bit but the baby is still severely brain-damaged and his mum is still devastated and grieving and blaming herself, and what the _fuck_ use are any of us to either of them?”

The van is parked, now, and the engine switched off, and Martin unbuckles his seatbelt and wordlessly shifts over into John’s lap, winding both arms around his shoulders and kissing the top of his head.

John’s arms come round Martin’s waist and squeeze.

When John’s calmed down a bit, Martin takes a deep breath and sits back, resting his spine against the front of the glove-box. “I need to tell you something,” he says. “And I need you to not throw a wobbly right away.”

John closes his eyes and tilts his head back, the picture of exhaustion. “Martin, I’m knackered,” he says. “Can’t it wait till tomorrow?”

“I’m sorry,” says Martin, “I wish it could, but it really, really can’t.”

* * *

The flat smells of warmed-up green curry, and there’s an empty coffee mug in the basin and an empty takeaway container on the worktop.

“Sherlock?” Martin calls softly. There’s no reply.

Martin peers into the sitting-room, and, yes, there he is: curled on the sofa, back to the room, shoes off but coat still on, the collar turned up and sort of merging with the dark tumbled curls.

Martin goes back out into the corridor, where John is leaning against the wall.

“He’s sleeping on the sofa,” he says. “He ate the leftover Thai from the other night. I don’t know if we should wake him – I think … I think you probably both need to get some sleep before … well. Before.”

“No,” says John, his voice flat. “No, I want to see him. If it really _is_ him.”

Martin shrugs.

John follows him into the flat, into the sitting-room, and stops dead when he spots Sherlock.

One step, two, three, and John is on his knees in front of the sofa, his right hand in Sherlock’s hair and his left turning down the coat-collar and reaching—

The scene explodes into frantic movement: Sherlock twisting and lashing out – John reacting – a flurry of bitten-off exclamations. When the dust settles, Sherlock is flat on his back on the floor and John is sitting on him, pinning his wrists on either side of his head. John’s expression is deadly, and Sherlock’s, terrified.

“Oh my _God_ ,” says Martin, appalled. “John, for God’s sake, _stop_.”

Neither of them moves a muscle.

Martin crosses the room and shakes John’s right shoulder. “John,” he says again. “Stop it.”

John ignores him utterly. Martin keeps talking, though, and finally hunkers down behind him and wraps both arms around him, trapping his elbows, and at last the spell breaks, somehow, and John seems to come back to himself enough to recognize the look of sheer terror on Sherlock’s face.

“Christ,” he says, and lets go of Sherlock’s wrists as abruptly as if they’d burned him.

“John,” says Martin once more, as firmly as he can manage from this position. “John, let him up now.”

He unwinds his arms and tugs gently on John’s elbow, and John struggles to his feet – but all the time he’s staring at Sherlock.

“ _Three years_ ,” he snarls. His hands clench and unclench at his sides. “Three _bloody_ years, and not one word, not a single fucking word. I should kill you myself, you utter, _utter_ bastard.”

Relieved of John’s weight on his midsection, Sherlock has got his elbows under him, and he scrambles backwards into a sort of defensive crouch.

“It’s okay,” says Martin, because Sherlock suddenly reminds him of Arthur attempting to cope with his dad. “I won’t let him hurt you.”

John pulls away from Martin. “You’re not _taking his side_ ,” he says. “Jesus, Martin—”

“Of course I’m not taking his side.” Martin swallows back his hurt at John’s accusing tone: _not helpful right now_. “I’m always on your side, you know that. It’s just … look, I don’t think we know the whole story, and I think before we, before you discuss … anything, probably everyone should get a few hours’ sleep, yeah?”

John looks at him for a long, long time; Martin tries not to feel naked and exposed, tries not to feel like a traitor.

“Okay,” John says at last. “You’re right. Okay.” He half-turns to glare at Sherlock, one blunt index finger stabbing the air between them. “Tomorrow morning. You’d better fucking be here. And don’t you dare smoke in our flat, either.”

“Of course not, John,” says Sherlock.

For all the deep, roughened timbre of his voice, he sounds like a little boy, and again Martin feels an unwelcome stab of sympathy.

John turns on his heel and stalks away to the bedroom.

Martin follows, hesitant, and hovers awkwardly in the doorway, watching John jerk open a drawer, yank out a t-shirt and pyjama trousers, fling them onto the bed.

“Should I … d’you want me to go?” he says. He’s not sure _where_ he would go, exactly, but surely Douglas or Carolyn would give him a sofa to kip on for one night. Worst case, he can borrow some blankets and sleep in the back of the van.

John freezes in the act of unbuttoning his shirt and stares at Martin. “Jesus,” he says. “Oh my God, no.”

His hands drop from his shirt buttons and he crosses the room to pull Martin roughly into his arms.

* * *

In the eleven months they’ve known each other, Martin has never once seen John cry, but he’s unequivocally crying now – deep, ugly, tearing sobs, more violent for the effort to suppress them, that seem almost to be shaking him apart. Martin has no idea what to do with this storm surge of long-repressed emotion, and so he does the only thing he can think of: he holds on tight, and waits for the storm to pass.

And pass it does, eventually. As all things do.

“I hate him so much,” John says. His voice is rough and hoarse. “I hate him _so much_ , and I am _so fucking glad_ he’s alive.”

“I know,” says Martin.

* * *

John falls asleep within ten minutes, spooned up tightly behind Martin. Martin, on the other hand, has reached that unpleasant state of equilibrium between  _too keyed-up to sleep_ and  _too tired to keep my eyes open_ , and lies awake for more than an hour listening to John’s deep, slow breathing (and occasional soft snoring) and Sherlock’s total silence from the sitting-room.

He’s half expecting violent nightmares from one or both of them, but John, to Martin’s surprise, sleeps like the dead, and if Sherlock has any bad dreams, they’re the quiet kind.

Martin, predictably, is first up in the morning. Normally, on a trip- and van-job-free morning, he would take a shower, make coffee, and curl up on the sofa with a book until John woke up, but today the sofa’s occupied and Martin really doesn’t want to wake either Sherlock or John prematurely. He also – his half-hearted offer to depart last night notwithstanding – doesn’t want to leave them alone together until they’ve had a chance to talk things out and, hopefully, calm down. John genuinely frightened him last night – Martin is not at all sure how he feels about this – and he clearly terrified Sherlock as well.

In the end he ventures out into the kitchen and sits quietly at the table, attempting to focus on _Overture to Death_. The mystery of who rigged the fatal piano was very absorbing yesterday, but after a third time through the same paragraph without absorbing any of the information in it, Martin gives up on Ngaio Marsh and wanders soft-footed out to the sitting-room window.

Sherlock is still deeply asleep, and doesn’t stir when Martin passes by the sofa. He’s lying on his back, one arm hanging down from the sofa seat and the other wrapped – protectively? – over his chest. In sleep, his face is wiped clean of arrogant superiority and abject terror both; he looks both younger and more fragile. There are deep shadows under his eyes; Martin sees fading bruises on his face and throat, and scabbed-over abrasions ringing his exposed right wrist.

It’s not hard to guess what marks like that might mean.

* * *

Eventually, John wanders out of the bedroom, his face puffy and his hair sticking up every which way. He pulls Martin into his arms again and growls into his ear, “Thank you for not letting me punch him.”

“I was going to,” says Martin, honestly, “but then he looked so scared, it reminded me of—” he adjusts his trajectory at the last second, in a probably futile attempt to protect Arthur’s privacy, and continues, “of someone I know whose father was, um, not very kind to him when he was younger. And you were best friends, before, and I just—”

“Martin?” John pulls back a little. “Any chance of a cuppa?”

_Received and understood: that’s enough talking about our feelings for right now._

“Kettle boiled a few minutes ago,” Martin says. “Help yourself.”

Around eleven, they wake Sherlock by making a pot of coffee and putting a mug of it on the coffee table, within sniffing distance. He snuffles awake like a bespoke-suited badger, inhales the coffee, and after a few minutes’ rapid blinking, says, “I went to Baker Street first. But you weren’t there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still very conflicted about this chapter, but I finally decided that if I didn't just post it already, warts and all, I never would. So ... here it is.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> explanations; recriminations; revelations and ministrations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be a good place to mention that the Martin of this story looks very much like the one in Tealin’s brilliant Cabin Pressure art (see [here](http://tealin.tumblr.com/tagged/cabin-pressure))—which you should go check out at once and straight away if you haven’t already—and thus basically not at all like Sherlock, except I’ve given my short, ~~scrawny~~ wiry, adorable Martin [these unruly ginger curls](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fz7jZAy5UVY), because I’m sorry but I just had to.
> 
> I think this chapter could use a few more editing passes ... but like the last one, it feels like I need to just post it already or I never will!

“You thought I would still be there,” John says, incredulous; and, before Sherlock can possibly reply, “Keeping the place up like a fucking shrine. Oh, my God, you _did._ Seriously, Sherlock? You thought my life would just _stop_ because you weren’t there?”

Martin refills Sherlock’s mug (Sherlock ignores him) and doesn’t point out any of the ways in which, by John’s own (admittedly limited) account, John’s life did exactly that. After all, if it was true for a while, it certainly isn’t anymore.

(It isn’t, is it?)

Sherlock folds his long fingers ( _bruised skin, scraped knuckles, doesn’t John see?_ ) around the mug and brings it towards him, but doesn’t drink. He’s so intent on John that Martin might as well be invisible.

“And then you _break into my flat_ ,” John continues, working up a fine head of outraged steam, “in the middle of the night, and I’m meant to, what, just drop everything and follow you back to Baker Street, so everything can be just like it was before?”

So focused is John on his epic rant that Sherlock’s gathering expression of baffled hurt, his increasingly curled-in posture, don’t seem to be registering with him at all.

“John,” says Martin quietly, stepping up beside him and putting a hand on his shoulder.

John pauses momentarily, and it’s enough time for Sherlock to say, “Can’t it?”

There’s a long, fraught silence as John—possibly for the first time this morning— _really looks_ at his not-dead best (?) friend. Martin sees him take in the hunch of Sherlock’s shoulders, the knife-edge sharpness of his cheekbones, his red-rimmed eyes, the fading bruises on his face. He takes a deep, slow breath—lets it out—repeats the process. As if Sherlock were a nightmare come to life?

“No,” he says, finally. “No, it can’t.”

John’s hand clenches, releases, clenches again; Martin steps closer and grips his shoulder—firm but gentle, the way John does when Martin’s having some sort of crisis—and feels John’s tight-wound tension unspool, just a little, beneath his hand.

“Look, Sherlock. I’m.” John clears his throat; his gaze is fixed on the wall above Sherlock’s head. “I’m glad you’re not. Not dead. I am. Really, really glad. But.” He swallows. “But I am _so angry_ with you. You were—you made me—do you have _any idea_ , Sherlock, what I—”

His voice chokes off; he tips his face up toward the ceiling.

“I think I have now,” says Sherlock, low.

The way Sherlock looks at John—almost _hungrily_ , the way Martin suspects he himself probably looks at airliners and the pilots who fly them—is disconcerting but, rather to Martin’s surprise, doesn’t inspire him to possessiveness or territorial display. He thinks of Sherlock last night, shouting, _I did it to protect him!_ and his initial refusal to explain. Thinks, _All this time I’ve thought you didn’t care, didn’t understand, I couldn’t have been more wrong, could I?_

“Maybe we could all sit down,” he suggests. “Have some breakfast. Er, some lunch.”

“Not hungry,” says Sherlock, still not looking at Martin.

And it’s this, this thing of all things, Martin has no idea why, that makes John take a furious step forward and get right in Sherlock’s face and growl, “I don’t care. You’re bloody well eating.”

Sherlock blinks. For a second Martin thinks he’s going to push back – argue, rationalise, perhaps actually get physical – but instead his shoulders relax and he says, calmly, obediently, “Yes, John.”

John rocks back on his heels, nearly overbalances.

“I’ll, I’ll do eggs and toast,” says Martin, increasingly at sea. “I think we’ve got some bacon in. Might have.”

He retreats to the kitchen and, obeying an instinct he’s not sure he understands, makes as much noise as possible in getting out the eggs and bacon, the frying-pan, the plates and forks to put on the table.

John joins him in the kitchen after a few minutes, goes about the business of toast whilst Martin’s frying bacon and scrambling eggs. He doesn’t talk, so Martin doesn’t either.

Sherlock wanders in, deliberately or by happenstance, just as they’ve got everything on the table; he sits down in Martin’s usual place, quickly changes seats when John glowers at him. Martin takes his own seat last, wishing John had let well enough alone.

They start eating – still in silence – and Martin, watching the other two as a person learns to watch other people when so many things don’t come naturally to him, notices things: notices John holding his fork awkwardly in his right hand, his left hand clenched beneath the table; notices Sherlock’s eyes darting from one of them to the other, quick-quick-quick, as his fork pushes scrambled egg around his plate. He shivers from time to time, and the fork rattles briefly against the china.

He’s not eating, not really—not, as Mum would say, enough to keep a bird alive. Maybe he’s genuinely not hungry (he ate a _lot_ of leftover takeaway last night), but Martin thinks it’s more likely just nerves. The way he keeps looking at John, the way John’s determinedly _not_ looking back …

Sherlock Holmes may have— _does_ have—a lot to answer for, but Martin’s starting to feel pretty bad for him, all things considered.

John and Martin finish their breakfast, and Sherlock, under John’s stern gaze, eventually eats about half of his, and John clears away while Martin puts the kettle on, again, and Sherlock sits staring down at his hands, which are gripped tightly together on the table in front of him. And when the tea’s made and the washing-up is done, and they’ve migrated back into the lounge (Sherlock perching on the sofa as if poised for flight, John in his armchair leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, Martin with his Hawker Hurricane mug hovering anxiously in the doorway), John takes one of his deep, steadying breaths, blows it out through pursed lips, and says, “Okay: talk.”

Sherlock’s bent head snaps up; his throat works, once, again. He reaches for the mug Martin handed him a few minutes ago, wraps his hands round it, apparently oblivious to the heat it must still be radiating.

“Moriarty,” he says.

John nods, tightly.

“I calculated that there were thirteen possibilities once I’d got Moriarty onto the roof,” says Sherlock. “I wanted to avoid dying if at all possible. So … the first scenario involved hurling myself into a parked hospital van filled with washing bags. Impossible, though; the angle was too steep. The second one involved a system of Japanese wrestling—”

“Sherlock,” says John, in a voice of barely contained … something. “You can’t really be that thick. I don’t care _how_ you did it—I want to know _why_.”

Sherlock blinks at him in apparent bafflement.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he says at last.

“Not to me.” John’s voice emerges from between clenched teeth. Martin winces, but neither of them sees.

“Because Moriarty had to be stopped,” says Sherlock. “You _know_ this. He—”

“Not—” John is, at least to Martin’s experienced eye, visibly pulling himself together. “Not, _why did you do it_. Although—no. I meant—why did you—”

He gestures between them.

He means, Martin’s fairly sure, _Why did you leave me behind?_ And his heart aches for John, even though, had Sherlock not gone off on his own, Martin’s life would be considerably the poorer.

“That’s … a little more difficult to explain,” says Sherlock.

“I’ve got all day.” Grimly.

“Mm. Yes.” Sherlock stares down into his mug of tea, which has stopped steaming and must by now be well on its way to undrinkable. “That … that was mostly Mycroft’s idea, actually.”

Martin frowns, puzzled—but not for long, because John says, “Oh, so this was your _brother_ ’s asinine plan, then?”

And, yes, it stands to reason Sherlock couldn’t have survived jumping off the roof of a four-storey building unless he had some kind of help. Martin tries to picture this fake-death-planning brother of Sherlock’s—would he be even taller, even haughtier, with an even swisher coat?—but his imagination fails him.

“But he was the only one?” John says. “The only one who knew?”

Sherlock looks, there’s no other word for it, guilty as hell. “Well,” he says. “Not … not as such.” Then he starts talking very fast: “It was a very elaborate operation, of course. It had to be. Obviously. The next of the thirteen possibilities—”

“Who else?” John looks up at Sherlock, his shoulders drawing together. Martin can’t see John’s face, but he’s got an excellent view of Sherlock’s trapped expression. “Who else knew?”

And when Sherlock hesitates, his eyes wide, John leans forward, insistent: “ _Who?_ ”

“Well—Molly,” Sherlock admits, with evident reluctance. “Molly Hooper. And my homeless network. But no one else.”

John sits back. Rolls his shoulders. “Right,” he says, in a dangerously even tone. “So just your brother, and Molly, and about a hundred street kids.”

“No!” Sherlock protests, sitting up straighter. “Not a hundred. Twenty-five at most.”

“That’s _not better_ , Sherlock,” John growls.

Martin starts forward, for the first time genuinely afraid of a repeat of last night; but John subsides, though his posture is stiff and tense and angry, and Martin takes up a slightly closer station against the wall.

Just in case.

Sherlock is silent, curled in on himself again, looking at his tea as though it’s something foreign, incomprehensible.

“One word, Sherlock,” John says, very quietly. “Just one word, to let me know you were okay. That’s all I’d have needed.”

“I nearly did,” says Sherlock, just as quiet. “I nearly got in touch, so many times.”

John’s little huff of derisive laughter says he doesn’t believe this for a minute; Martin, though … Martin thinks maybe he does.

“I had to stay dead,” Sherlock continues. Explaining, still. “Plausibly, _believably_ dead. I was afraid, if you knew … you might, might say something.”

And Martin, God help him, can actually sort of understand this, a bit, but—

“So basically,” says John, and he’s using that _is this a fucking joke_ voice again, “you let me grieve you for two _fucking_ years because I’m not a good enough _actor_?”

He leans forward again, very suddenly this time, and Sherlock flinches away. It’s brief, very quickly controlled, but this time John sees it too, and it stops him dead.

“Sherlock,” he says. “I’m not going to hit you.”

“I know that,” says Sherlock. All of that withering scorn, Martin’s fairly sure, is entirely put on.

“I am still very, _very_ angry,” says John. “I am unbelievably pissed off with you. But I’m not going to hit you.”

“Yes, John. You said.”

John takes a deep breath, lets it out. Squares his shoulders. “So,” he says. “You’re back now, yeah? And Moriarty is …?”

“Dead,” says Sherlock. “Very, very dead. He, um. He shot himself in the head. Just before I … just before.”

“Christ,” says Martin, appalled, before he can stop himself.

John and Sherlock turn in unison to look at him, and he realises they’d completely forgotten he was there.

Feeling defiant and even a little bit brave, he peels himself away from the wall, crosses the small room and perches on the arm of John’s chair.

Sherlock frowns at him.

John, perhaps predictably, responds by putting down his mug and taking Martin’s hand.

“Problem?” he says. And there’s a challenge in his voice, but there’s something else, too—God knows what; Martin certainly doesn’t.

Sherlock, though …

Sherlock sits up straighter, still nursing his un-drunk tea, and when he opens his mouth, a _torrent_ of words comes out. “How can you be—? You don’t know anything about him. He pretends he’s a pilot but actually he does manual labour, nobody who sits in a padded seat for a living has that kind of musculature or those calluses—”

He stops short, looking both astonished and deeply offended, because John is _laughing_.

Martin looks from one of them to the other, completely at sea.

“You _arse_ ,” says John at last. “Exactly how thick do you think I am?”

* * *

It takes the rest of the morning, and there’s more shouting and pleading (from John) and more stonewalling and apparent bafflement (from Sherlock), and at times Martin’s almost crawling out of his skin from the tension in the room; but finally, reluctantly, Sherlock comes out with what looks to Martin like the truth.

“I lost the game,” he says, looking down at his bare toes. He’s curled up in John’s armchair, his long arms and legs improbably folded up, his spine curved forward so that it doesn’t touch the back of the chair. “Moriarty won, and I lost, and that was the forfeit, that I had to die, and be seen to die, or—”

He stops again, and Martin ventures a comment: “You said he shot himself. That doesn’t sound like winning to me.”

Sherlock looks up then, aiming a withering stare and a curled lip at Martin. His mouth opens—

“Sherlock,” says John quietly.

Sherlock’s mouth snaps shut. His throat works; he curls himself over his bent-up knees again, and when he speaks his voice is slightly muffled.

“He was the only one who knew how to call off the snipers,” he says. “Once he was dead—checkmate. If _I_ didn’t die, or rather appear to die, then … other people … would.”

“Snipers?” says John, sharp. Then his eyes widen. “Oh, Christ, Mrs Hudson—that workman—”

Sherlock, chin on kneecap, nods. “And Lestrade,” he says. “And …” He hunches further, so that he’s speaking directly into his left knee. “You.”

John, already sitting very still, freezes.

“This is what you’ve been trying to avoid telling me,” he says after a moment, in a dangerously even voice—which Sherlock, too, obviously recognizes as such. “ _High-functioning sociopath, Alone protects me_ , Jesus, Sherlock—”

“I didn’t _know_ ,” Sherlock bursts out, raising his head again. “I had no idea that you—that you would—I _lost the game_ , John, I was—”

“You were my _best friend!_ ” Both Sherlock and Martin rock back at John’s bellow of rage. Martin recovers quickly, because the immediate aftermath of the rage seems to be a shocky, deflated blankness for which mere handholding is not going to suffice. But Sherlock just sits there, gaping at John in gobsmacked silence, for a very long few minutes.

Eventually Martin says hesitantly, “That was … was that news to you?”

Sherlock blinks several times, then seems to refocus on Martin. “Yes,” he says.

John buries his face in his hands. “For a genius,” he says, “you can be astonishingly thick.” He drops his hands, looks up at Sherlock. “Of course you were. Of _course_ you were, Sherlock.”

Sherlock says, in a very small voice, “And … now?”

John sighs; scrubs the heel of his hand across his forehead.

“I want us to be friends again,” he says tightly. “Still. Of course I do. I don’t want you to disappear out of my life again. But I’m not coming back to Baker Street just because you say so—I’ve got a partner and a proper job” ( _properly exciting_ , Martin mentally adds) “and a _life_ here now, and I can always get another job, but Martin is _not negotiable_.”

Sherlock gives Martin an appraising sort of look. “He may not be quite as stupid as he first appears,” he concedes.

“Sherlock, he flies a fucking aeroplane for a living,” John says, with a dangerous sort of half-smile in his voice. Martin doesn’t correct him. “He’s not stupid at all, except in the same way everyone in the world’s an idiot except you and your bloody brother. Also, he’s the one who stopped me beating you senseless last night, you arse, so you might consider a little sodding gratitude.”

Sherlock scoffs; apparently he’s recovered his equilibrium, or is doing a good job of pretending he has.

“It’s fine,” Martin says hastily, before John’s reaction can escalate beyond a gathering frown. “I didn’t do it to be thanked. I just didn’t want John to have you on his conscience.”

When John and Sherlock both turn to look at him, they’re wearing disconcertingly identical expressions of sardonic amusement.

* * *

For the moment, Sherlock is showing no signs of going back to London—or, indeed, of leaving the flat. Most days, he seems not even to be leaving the sofa, though evidence accumulates that he’s showering and, from time to time, eating something.

Martin’s a bit surprised by how quickly he acclimates to the presence of a third, until very recently dead person in the flat.

A week and a bit after Sherlock’s arrival, Martin comes home at half ten in the morning from a pre-dawn cargo flight to Aberdeen, to find the flat silent and, at first glance, unoccupied. Leaving his flight bag in the entry, he wanders into the kitchen. John’s at work, according to the calendar on the fridge.

Martin puts away the milk that someone (Sherlock) has left out, rolling his eyes only a little. The kitchen worktop is strewn with Weetabix crumbs, the empty box is on the kitchen table, and there’s a milky bowl and spoon sitting unwashed in the basin: all unmistakeable spoor of the resident consulting detective. At least he hasn’t left the dishes to fester under the furniture this time, which is progress.

“I’m not your housekeeper, Sherlock,” Martin calls into the sitting-room. “And you’re buying John more Weetabix.”

There’s no reply. Concerned, he steps out of the kitchen, and beholds Sherlock apparently asleep, belly-down on the sofa with his left arm and shoulder hanging off the sofa seat, one knee tucked up nearly to his chest and the other bare foot extended over the armrest.

Martin’s breath catches at the mess of half-healed abrasions circling each bony ankle, redder and angrier even than the matching marks on Sherlock’s wrists. He crosses to the sofa, collecting the tartan blanket from the back of John’s armchair on the way, and pauses again, shocked rigid, in the act of unfolding it: from this angle he can see where Sherlock’s dressing-gown has slipped off his right shoulder, exposing a tangle of long, ropey scars.

“Shut up, Martin,” Sherlock says, without opening his eyes.

Martin startles violently. “I thought you were asleep,” he says. “And I didn’t say anything.”

“You were _thinking_.” Sherlock hasn’t moved at all; his voice is muffled by the sofa cushions into which he’s pressed his face. “Very loudly. Stop it, it’s incredibly annoying.”

“I brought you a blanket,” Martin says, deciding to ignore this. “You looked a bit chilly.”

Sherlock retracts all his limbs and pushes himself upright, like a mole erupting out of a flowerbed, until he’s sitting in the exact centre of the sofa, tucked up into a surprisingly small parcel with his arms round his shins. He eyes Martin and the tartan blanket suspiciously, as though the one were an enemy spy and the other, perhaps, a bomb.

Martin looks steadily back at him.

“You’re serious,” Sherlock says at last, in a tone of utter disbelief.

His left hand shoots out, snags the blanket from Martin’s arms, and retracts; there’s a small flurry of motion while he tucks it around himself.

“Have you seen a doctor?” Martin asks, because he can’t help it.

Sherlock gives him a scathing look. “John’s a doctor. I see him every day. Obviously.”

“I mean.” Martin swallows, trying not to lose momentum. “You’ve got … marks. Scars. It looks like you were. Well. Tortured.”

“Interrogated,” Sherlock corrects. He’s sitting very stiffly; his face is impassive, his eyes wary.

“If you say so,” says Martin. “I just … if you haven’t been to see a doctor since then, I think you should do. Just in case.”

“I’ll take your medical opinion under advisement, _Captain_ ,” says Sherlock, pointedly; then he uncoils himself and, just as pointedly, flops down on the sofa again and presents Martin with his curled, blanket-covered back.

Martin sighs.

“At least let John have a look,” he says.

“ _No_.”

There’s a long silence, while Martin thinks; then, “Well, then, at least let _me_. I mean, in case something’s infected, or—”

“ _Fine_.” There’s another flurry of movement, and Sherlock is kneeling in the centre of the sofa, his head bent forward, shrugging his dressing-gown off his shoulders.

Martin very carefully doesn’t say any of the first four things which present themselves at the sight of the criss-crossing marks – new ones laid on top of older ones, it looks like – that cover nearly the whole of Sherlock’s bowed back. _Jesus fucking Christ_ is unhelpful; _My God, that must have hurt_ and _No wonder you don’t like to sleep on your back_ , liable to produce a scathing retort about Martin’s tiny brain; and as for _Oh, God, I’m so sorry_ … well, Sherlock’s not much for sympathy, either given or received.

“John’s got some bacitracin ointment in the first-aid kit,” he says instead, quietly. “I’ll be right back.”

The flat is very quiet for the next fifteen minutes, while Martin carefully spreads antibiotic ointment over the marks on Sherlock’s back, his wrists, his ankles, wraps gauze, clumsily applies adhesive tape. Martin doesn’t know what he can possibly say, and so says nothing apart from the occasional _turn this way a bit_ or _still okay?_ ;and Sherlock makes no sound at all until, as Martin’s putting away the sadly depleted first-aid supplies and making a mental note to replace them, he says very softly, “Don’t tell John.”

“Sherlock—”

A hand darts out and clamps vice-like around Martin’s wrist. “ _Don’t. Tell. John._ ”

“Okay,” Martin says, raising his other hand in a _please don’t shoot_ gesture. “Okay, I won’t. But—”

“I told you,” Sherlock says, not looking at him. “The night I first came here, I told you.”

 _I did it for him_ , Martin remembers. In light of subsequent events, he’s been thinking Sherlock meant the act of jumping, the snipers, the disappearing act; but maybe …

“I won’t tell him,” he repeats. “I said I wouldn’t, and I won’t. But if I were you, I’d think really, really hard about how good an idea it is to keep secrets from John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any dialogue you recognize is borrowed or adapted from _The Empty Hearse_. I relied on arianedevere’s excellent transcript, available at <http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/64080.html>, for which I am very grateful.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introspection and accusation; a brief détente, with coffee; armchair diagnosis; an ultimatum.

If Martin had ever tried to imagine the consequences of Sherlock’s coming back to life—which he didn’t, of _course_ he didn’t, because the very notion was, and remains, absurd—the very first thing he’d have predicted was the end of his relationship with John. Oh, John would let him down gently, would be kind and considerate and probably genuinely regretful, but of course he wouldn’t want Martin if he could have Sherlock instead.

But it doesn’t happen, and—beginning with that very first night, when John clung to him, choking on the force of his grief and rage and relief, as though Martin were the only force in the universe capable of keeping him together—it _keeps on_ not happening, and Martin is going very slowly mad.

A week goes by, and then another, and Martin is still sleeping in what technically is John’s bed, and Sherlock is still sleeping (when he does sleep) on John’s sofa—nearly all the furniture in the flat is John’s, though the dishes and pots and pans are at least half Martin’s—and finally there comes an otherwise perfectly ordinary Tuesday evening, when John’s at work for the night and Martin is home, supposedly getting his statutory hours of sleep before flying to Hong Kong tomorrow afternoon, and Sherlock is slouching balefully about the flat doing nothing in particular, and Martin … snaps.

His attack of, of _whatever-it-is_ , begins in a perfectly-ordinary-Tuesday-evening way, when he says to Sherlock, “Stop prowling for a minute and let me have a look at your back.”

The agreement they’ve come to, via a series of low-voiced arguments whilst John’s at work or asleep, is that Sherlock will look after the wounds on his wrists and ankles, which he can see and can get at, and will let Martin deal with the ones on his back, which he can’t. Martin hasn’t asked, and isn’t sure he wants to know, whether there’s more damage elsewhere that he hasn’t been permitted to see.

So Martin’s request shouldn’t surprise Sherlock, shouldn’t, logically speaking, constitute cause for the momentary flat-out panic that crosses his face, or for the ferocious scowl that succeeds it; and Martin is more than justified, really, in being surprised by Sherlock’s sharp, uncompromising “No.”

“What d’you mean, _no_?” Martin stands in the sitting-room feeling foolish, and belligerent with it, the first-aid box in his hands.

One side of Sherlock’s mouth curls up, and the opposite corner pulls down, in what Martin has already learnt to recognise as a classic Holmesian sneer. “ _I’m_ sorry,” he says, voice oozing public-school privilege, “did I _stammer_?”

“Shut up,” says Martin. As is not unusual these days, he’s pulled by conflicting desires to hug Sherlock and tell him it’ll all be okay in time, and to give him a ringing clip round the ear and tell him to stop being, as John might have put it, such a massive dickhead.

“It doesn’t need looking at,” Sherlock says. He takes a step backwards; Martin refrains from following. Sherlock’s moving a bit more stiffly today than usual, and Martin doesn’t want to spook him. “It’s fine. Don’t fuss.”

“’m not _fussing_ ,” says Martin, calmly. “I’m being responsible.”

“You are not responsible for me.” Sherlock’s tone is icy, and his hard stare could slice through marine-grade stainless steel.

“Well, I sort of am,” says Martin. “I mean, I thought we had an agreement about your back. Though of course if you’d just tell John about it—”

“Will you _stop_ going _on_ about that!”

Martin attempts an edged smile borrowed from Douglas, and to his secret satisfaction, sees Sherlock’s eyes widen momentarily. The satisfaction is short-lived, and quickly succeeded by guilt; Martin ruthlessly suppresses it, though, and says, “I’ll stop going on about it when you take off your shirt and let me have a look at your back.”

Sherlock snarls at him, and there’s another few minutes’ worth of arguing about it, but Martin has had a great deal of training in holding his ground against opponents cleverer than himself, and finally Sherlock concedes—though as ungracefully and ungratefully as possible, shedding his dressing-gown and t-shirt and flopping down on the sofa with a contemptuous huff.

“Bloody hell,” says Martin, staring. “How did _that_ happen?”

An angry purple-red bruise spreads across Sherlock’s lower back, from hip to hip at almost right angles to his spine. The line of bruising passes between two protruding vertebrae, and both are scraped raw, reddened and swelling, on their adjacent edges; nearby, some of the newer weals have opened up again, and had time to scab over.

As Martin smoothes bacitracin ointment over the new scabs and tapes on more gauze to protect them, Sherlock holds himself rigid and stares defiantly at the far wall. Martin wonders whether he’s pretending this is all happening to someone else. It’s a technique Martin’s used himself, once or twice, and one that seems like it might appeal to Sherlock.

“No, really,” he says, closing up the first-aid kit. “How did it happen?”

He’s not sure what he was expecting to hear—afraid of hearing—but what Sherlock actually says, eventually and in a low, sulky mutter, is, “Slipped. In the shower. Fell.”

And, yes, that mark could in fact match up quite well with the edge of the bath.

“When?” says Martin.

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders, then winces, then tries to pretend he hasn’t hurt himself. “Yesterday.”

Martin looks from the ugly mess above the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjama trousers to the first-aid box in his hands, and makes a decision.

“D’you want me to drive you to Casualty right now?” he says. “John’s on shift for another six hours. Or will you let him have a look when he gets home?”

Sherlock’s up off the sofa in a flash, bare-chested (Martin can count his ribs) and clutching his discarded dressing-gown like a shield. “Unacceptable,” he spits. “We are _not telling John_ about any of this. We agreed— _you_ agreed—”

“No,” says Martin—still calm, but he can feel something (impatience, exasperation, anger, _fear_ ) tugging at the fraying edges of his composure. “No, Sherlock, that’s where you’re wrong. I agreed _I_ wouldn’t tell him. Agreed under duress, in case you’ve forgotten. I didn’t agree that not telling him was a good idea, in fact I’m pretty sure I said at the time that I think it’s a bloody stupid one, and I _certainly_ didn’t agree to be a party to concealing any and all future damage you might do to your bloody stupid self, and how can you not _see_ that you’re only going to make things worse?”

By now his calm has more or less fled, and he’s nearly shouting; Sherlock has pulled the dressing-gown around himself, got his arms back into the sleeves, and is retreating towards the kitchen, possibly with the intent of barricading himself into the loo beyond.

“I can’t go to hospital,” he says, all the defensive petulance gone from his voice now, which gives Martin pause. “I don’t want John to see, to know, but, but I really _can’t_ let anyone else see me. You know I’m not meant to be back yet, I’m meant to be hiding in one of Mycroft’s safe houses—”

“But you’re here instead,” says Martin, pushed into recklessness and far off topic, “and we both know why, don’t we, and if you’re going to make a move I wish you’d just bloody well _do_ it, because I’m going mad waiting and on top of that I am bloody well _sick_ and _tired_ of—”

“What on earth do you mean, _make a move_?” Sherlock interrupts, pausing in his retreat to frown at Martin. “I’ve just told you, I can’t go anywhere until—”

“I mean,” says Martin, wretched but determined, “I mean _John_. I mean, if you’re going to swoop in with some kind of grand passionate declaration of love—”

“Martin, are you _high_?” Sherlock’s face is scrunched up in utter bewilderment, all cheekbones and chins.

“He loved you,” Martin says. “I don’t know if you ever realized.”

“Why does your voice sound like that when you say it?” says Sherlock. “As though you’re accusing me of something? We were friends—isn’t that what friends do?”

That last use of the past tense is a little bit heartbreaking.

“You _are_ friends. No, I mean,” says Martin, trying with all his might not to trip over his own tongue, “I-I-I mean he’d have done … this …” (a vague hand-wave taking in himself, the sitting-room, their surroundings generally) “with you, he wanted to, if you’d given him the least bit of encouragement. I thought—is that not why you—”

Sherlock scowls. “I may be a high-functioning sociopath, Martin,” he says, “but I’m not _blind_. I knew he wasn’t only attracted to women; I knew when he said _not gay_ he didn’t actually mean _straight_. If I’d wanted … that … from John, do you honestly think I’d have missed _any_ opportunity to make it happen? I _didn’t_ want that. I wanted …” Sherlock’s indignant momentum falters for the first time, and his voice goes almost wistful: “I wanted exactly what we had. It was perfect.”

“You’re not a high-functioning sociopath,” Martin says, attempting to conceal the relief he feels—like a powerful wave crashing against the backs of his knees, threatening to knock him over—as well as how ashamed he is of feeling it, by ignoring the rest of Sherlock’s speech. “That’s not even a real diagnosis.”

“Oh, so you’re a psychiatrist now, _Captain_ Crieff?”

Martin rolls his eyes. “Ask John, then, if you don’t believe me. He’s never thought you were a sociopath, either. Anyway, even stupid pilots know that sociopaths don’t throw themselves off buildings to save their friends’ lives.”

To Martin’s utter unsurprise, Sherlock immediately changes the subject: “There’s no need to be jealous,” he says.

“I’m not jealous,” says Martin.

Sherlock’s expression says very clearly, _You and I both know that’s not entirely true._

“I mean it,” Martin insists, and now that he’s not waiting for the other size 12 poncey Italian shoe to drop, it’s absolutely true. “I’m completely happy for John to be your best friend. I’d quite like to be your friend, too.” He suppresses a wince at Sherlock’s quickly suppressed but unmistakeable expression of astonishment. “I mean, I won’t deny I found you pretty intimidating when you were dead. And I’d have understood if he chose you over me, if, if you wanted that, a-a-and I wouldn’t ever try to keep John in a-a-a situation that made him unhappy. I hope I’ve got more self-respect than that. But—”

“Of course he’s not unhappy,” Sherlock interrupts, in his most scathing _How can you be so stupid and yet live_ voice (with which Martin, having known him less than a month, is already wearily familiar). “Have you _looked_ at him? He’s _revoltingly_ happy.” A tiny smile tugs up one corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “I’d have done something about you otherwise.”

Martin remembers John saying, _I’m glad you’ve got friends who look out for you_ , and even though Sherlock has essentially just called him an idiot (again), he finds he’s grinning.

Sherlock grins back at him, honest and open and _real_ , and it’s like a bank of floodlights going on.

 _I think I’m starting to see what John loved about you_ , he thinks but doesn’t say. Instead he says, “I’m making coffee. D’you want a cup?”

Sherlock blinks at him. “Yes,” he says, sounding astonished and pleased; and after a moment, “Thank you.”

* * *

Sherlock clearly thinks Martin’s forgotten all about the horrific bruising and oozing weals on his back. Martin lets him go on thinking that until they’ve had their coffee—lulling him into a false sense of security. Then he produces a cheerful smile from somewhere and says, “So: are we going to A and E, or are we having a nice long talk with John when he gets home?”

“I’ve _told_ you—”

“Right, right,” says Martin, as though he’d actually forgotten. “No hospital. Okay. Probably for the best, actually. There’s likely to be some shouting.”

Sherlock’s glaring again, their burgeoning _détente_ apparently broken. “I fail to see why you think this is a good idea,” he says, cold and sulky.

He stalks back into the sitting-room and drapes himself over the sofa.

“And I fail to see why you don’t,” Martin retorts. He’s exasperated, and not much interested in hiding it. “Look, this whole impossible situation is because of you lying to John and not telling him things, and you think you’re going to make it better by not telling him _even more_ things? How does that make any sense at all?”

“And you’d know about that, would you?” Sherlock sneers. “From your own extensive experience, I suppose? You’re so transparent, you might as well be a shop window.”

“Yes,” says Martin, “and d’you know why? Because lying to people you love is _never a good plan_ , Sherlock.” He thinks of Douglas and his old Air England captain’s epaulettes and the brown sauce and Helena and the tai chi teacher; of trying to hide Icarus Removals from Mum and his siblings who of course, it turned out, knew all along; of the way his working relationship with Douglas has progressed, from outright hostility into something almost exactly like friendship, as both of them gradually laid down their defensive weapons and let their shields fall. Of the time John dreamed of Sherlock, falling, and in the morning was horrified by the bruises on Martin’s wrist where he’d tried to find Sherlock’s pulse. “It’s stupid, and it ends up hurting people, and it always comes back to bite you in the arse, and the longer you carry on with it, the worse it’s going to be when he does find out.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“No, _listen_ ,” says Martin, fed up. “I don’t know where you were all that time, or what you were doing, and obviously it wasn’t a, a holiday in Ibiza, and I understand what you _thought_ you were doing, but I was here, Sherlock, I was here for the nightmares and the therapy sessions and the grieving and the survivor’s guilt, and I swear to God, if you think I’m going to stand by and watch you hurt him like that all over again—”

Sherlock flinches, then scowls about it, and Martin realizes he’s been not only shouting but also waving his arms about in what might be construed as a threatening manner.

“I’m not going to hit you,” he says.

The scowl goes, unbelievably, even scowlier. “Of course you’re not,” says Sherlock crossly. “You wouldn’t hit me even if you wanted to. You still feel guilty about not being quicker to stop John from—”

“So you _know_ I’m not going to hit you,” says Martin, “but you still flinch when I move too fast.”

“Problem?” Sherlock’s arms are folded across his chest, his tone belligerent, his face still set in a scowl—but somehow he still reminds Martin of Arthur coming face to face with Gordon Shappey.

“Well, look at it from my perspective,” Martin says. He takes a step back, sits down in John’s chair—observes how Sherlock’s shoulders ease down from around his ears—crosses his right ankle over his left knee and slouches down in the chair so he’s looking very slightly up at Sherlock instead of down. “You’ve been working alone for a long time, under very stressful conditions. You’ve been tortured—”

“Interrogated,” Sherlock growls.

“—fine, interrogated. With violence. You have nightmares. You’ve lost a lot of weight, and you’re still not eating properly. You flinch when people raise their voices or move too fast. You have episodes of vertigo and end up falling over and hurting yourself in the shower. You’re afraid to go outside—”

“Do I have to tell you _again_ why—”

Martin holds up a hand. “Let me finish. Please.”

Sherlock subsides.

“I did some reading,” says Martin, “when I … when I discovered I was dating someone who’d not only been wounded in Afghanistan and nearly died but also seen his best friend commit suicide right in front of him.” He sees Sherlock’s full-body wince, forces himself not to react to it. “I thought maybe I’d better learn something about PTSD—you know, just in case.”

“John never had PTSD,” says Sherlock, confident now, and scornful with it. “His therapist told him that, but she was an—”

“An idiot, I know. I have read the blog, you know, Sherlock. I’m not talking about the John you met in London; I’m talking about the John I met in Fitton. The one who saw his best friend jump off a building and die. The one who thought you’d killed yourself because he was a rubbish friend.”

As soon as he’s said it, he’s almost sorry he did, because Sherlock looks like nothing so much as a man who’s been kicked in the stomach.

“The point is,” he continues, more gently (because he’s not actually trying to traumatise Sherlock further, just to get his sodding attention), “I think you need to talk to someone. About … about things. You know, process them. _And_ you need to see a doctor,” he adds, just in case Sherlock thinks he’s forgotten that bit. “And, Sherlock, if you’re at all serious about wanting to patch things up with John, you _need to tell him what happened to you._ ”

Sherlock is very quiet for a very long time after that—so long that Martin eventually gets up and goes into the kitchen to deal with the washing-up. He’s said his piece, he reasons, and done his bit, and Sherlock is a grown-up—technically, anyway—and will have to make the decision for himself.

_Please, Sherlock, for John’s sake, don’t be an idiot._

Martin privately suspects that John already knows more than Sherlock thinks he does. He’s a doctor, and not just any doctor but one who’s worked both in a war zone and in A&E he’s seen … things. Sherlock’s shocking confession, if he does decide to confess, may not actually shock John very much at all. But Martin knows, somehow—in the same way he’s always known he was meant to fly one day—that John needs to hear this from Sherlock, needs that concrete demonstration of trust in the wake of Sherlock’s betrayal, or their epic friendship is heading straight for the scrap yard.

It surprises Martin a little, how much he doesn’t want that to happen. But then, a lot of surprising things have happened to him since the day he met John Watson, the most surprising of which is John himself.


End file.
